


O Sinners, Let's Go Down

by birdsofshore



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, First Time, Living As A Muggle, M/M, Masturbation, Mild religion bashing, Mildly Dubious Consent, Muggle Studies, Priest Kink, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Frustration, UST, fetishising the rituals of Catholicism, mild homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-07 05:29:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4251132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdsofshore/pseuds/birdsofshore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It seemed like such a straightforward plan ‒ a trip to Suffolk to research his mother's family tree and spend a few days relaxing by the seaside. Harry wasn't looking for anything more than that. He certainly wasn't looking for Draco Malfoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	O Sinners, Let's Go Down

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Notes:** I'm an atheist who is fascinated by the seductive qualities of formal religion. I tried hard to get the details right here, but I did end up conflating elements of the Catholic and Anglican churches. Similarly, all of the Suffolk locations are real, but I may have messed with them a little bit to suit my purposes.
> 
> Thank you so much to my betas and the kind friends on LJ who kept me going when I felt discouraged. Thank you also to my very talented collaborator for inspiration and for knowing my kinks and weak spots all too well. This is somewhere I would never have gone until your art made it impossible to resist.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** All Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.

The red brick of the church glowed in the late afternoon sunshine as Harry pushed open the simple wooden gate and crunched along the gravel path. Having no idea where to start, he set off to the left, picking his way through poppies pushing their way shyly out of the earth among the stones and neatly-tended grass of the churchyard. The graves here were mostly new and had recently been visited, if the cellophane wrapped roses and the jam jar of narcissi were anything to go by.

Further back, the headstones stood less straight, their inscriptions blurred with time and flecks of lichen. _Charles John Bowsley. Sarah, wife of Philip Ley. Beloved Mother. In Loving Memory. Grant Him Thy Eternal Rest. Aged 68. Aged 20. Aged 33._ Those even further back, tucked against the hedge, were lopsided, sunken and illegible.

A blackbird was singing in the branches of a nearby tree. Harry turned towards the church and stopped still at the sight of a dark-robed figure coming in by the side gate. For a moment he had thought... but of course, it was only the priest, not a wizard at all.

There were more stones on the other side of the path, and probably on the far side of the church as well. So many. Harry gave up any idea of being methodical, instead letting his feet guide him at random, and after a few minutes he found her in the shade of a yew tree. It was as if she had been waiting for him.

  
_Lillian Mary Evans_  
1911 – 1955  
Beloved Wife and Mother  
Rest in Peace

The gently scalloped top of the stone bore a carved heart with decorative leaves. Harry placed his hand on it, feeling the cold solidity, the slight roughness against the tips of his fingers. _My great-grandmother_ , he thought, but it was hard to make the words mean much. Birds had evidently perched in the yew and left their droppings below, and Harry looked around before surreptitiously using his wand to clean the stone. There was no-one else in the churchyard. He Conjured a bunch of sweet peas, smiling at their sudden fragrance, and laid them on the damp grass before the stone. He waited a little while, but it was just a stone. Just words chipped away fifty years ago from an unresponsive slab that gave him no hint of who Lillian Mary might have been.

He very nearly went straight back to the cottage, but as he reached the gate, at the last minute he turned and headed for the church instead. It seemed a shame to leave so soon when this was the one place on his list with a definite connection to his mother's family.

Inside, it was instantly cool, with a soft, almost damp feeling settling on his bare arms. It was simply decorated, with white plaster walls, peeling in places, and rows of richly-polished wooden pews. The ceiling was of vaulted wood, and the floor, dark tile, with a strip of brick-red carpet. The only real colour came from an arching stained glass window behind the altar. Harry sank into a pew and let out a long breath. Sunlight streamed through the glass, catching at motes of dust and leaving muted patterns on the floor. The tension Harry had been carrying in his neck for what seemed like the whole journey to Suffolk began to drain away. He touched the cool wood of the pew in front. It was so smooth beneath his fingers, as if worn glossy by centuries of hands.

 _Maybe she sat here_ , he thought. _Maybe her fingers touched this wood._

She seemed much more real in here. Harry closed his eyes and saw a smiling woman – small, and quick, and red-headed. _Lillian_ , he thought, and then said it aloud. “Lillian.”

There was a silence which felt like approval.

On impulse, he got to his knees. If Lillian was a churchgoer, she must often have knelt here to pray, Harry thought. He couldn't recall ever having done this before, and self-consciousness prickled at his neck, but he closed his eyes more tightly to blot it out.

What were you meant to say? Harry didn't think he believed in any god, but that was how you started, wasn't it? Dear God.

 _Dear God_ , Harry prayed.

You had to ask for what you wanted, he knew that.

_I want... I want... I don't know what I want._

He could definitely feel something. Like someone watching. Someone curious to hear what he said next. Encouraged, he carried on.

_I feel... lonely. Sort of lost. There's got to be more to it than this. Hasn't there?_

He left a pause, but there was no obvious answer.

_I want some... some meaning in my life. Some connection. I don't know what I'm meant to be doing. Nothing I try seems to work out._

More silence, but he felt... a definite _presence_. The hairs on his arms were lifting up. He groped outwards with his mind, searching for something tangible.

_Are you there? If you're there, please answer._

Still the silence, still the vague sense of someone watching. Someone faintly amused. Harry felt irritation gathering at his temples. Was this what God was like? Something you couldn't put your finger on, something always just out of reach?

Frustration pushed the words out of his mouth, louder than he expected. “Look, can you hear me? Is there anyone there or not?”

A clear, rather haughty voice answered, sending a jolt down Harry's spine. “Are you speaking to me?”

Harry got to his feet in alarm, his cheeks flushing red. There was a tall, slim figure standing to one side of the altar, wearing dark, forbidding priest's robes and carrying a bible in his pale hand.

It was Draco Malfoy.

~~

Malfoy's steps were quiet and precise as they walked around the church towards the side gate. It led to a narrow dirt path next to a field of some scrubby-looking crop.

“Easier to talk out here,” Malfoy said. “Without being overheard, that is.”

Harry couldn't stop staring. Malfoy was as pale and pointy as ever, and he didn't exactly look a lot older than when Harry had last seen him. When had that been, exactly? Possibly at the trials, Harry thought with a jolt. But he had changed, nonetheless. His hair was still white-blond, but now he wore it shorter and neatly combed to one side. His skin was smooth and clean-shaven, but there were hollows to his cheeks, as though he had been neglecting to eat properly. His eyes flicked across to Harry's face from time to time, then down again to the path in front of them, and he side-stepped to dodge a patch of mud, bumping Harry's arm with a bony elbow as he did so. He grimaced at Harry, but did not apologise.

“So—”

“What—”

They both spoke at the same time and broke off. Malfoy didn't smile. “You first.”

Harry stopped walking and turned to face Malfoy. “Well, what the hell are you doing here?”

Malfoy frowned. “I should ask you the same question. You tell me.”

“I'm on holiday.”

“How convenient.”

“I didn't know you would be here!” Indignation flashed hotly in Harry's chest.

“Of course not.” Malfoy's eyes were hard.

“I came to visit a grave, actually. My great-grandmother.”

Malfoy just stared at him coldly, his lips a thin line.

“Lillian Mary Evans. She's in that graveyard. She was my mother's father's mother.”

“Where is the grave?”

“Under the yew. Just off the path, on the right as you come in by the other gate.”

Malfoy appeared to be picturing this, then tilted his chin at Harry. “So, you weren't looking for me?”

“Looking for you? Why on earth would I have been?”

Malfoy gave him an unfriendly look. “Why on earth?” he echoed. “Your great-grandmother, you say?”

“Yes. I've been researching my family tree.” Harry thought back to his parchment roll, filled with scribbled names and crossings out and question marks. “You know, I found we might even be related – you and me, I mean.”

Malfoy nodded curtly. “Of course we are. All pureblood families are connected. We're fourth cousins, once removed, on your father's side.”

Harry's surprise must have shown on his face, because Malfoy's mouth twitched – only a ghost of his old smirk, but there nonetheless.

“So, you came out here to stare at her grave? Rather maudlin of you, isn't it?”

Harry's jaw clenched. “What are you doing here, Malfoy? What the hell are you up to?”

Malfoy's face resumed an expression of careful blankness. “I would have thought that was obvious.”

“You're telling me that you're a priest now?” Harry shook his head. “An actual priest?”

Malfoy blinked. “Not yet. Not _quite_.”

“But – you're in training to be? I don't believe you.”

Malfoy regarded him coolly. “You're calling me a liar?”

Harry felt less sure of himself with those steady grey eyes fixed upon his own. But surely— “Yes.”

Malfoy simply turned and continued walking along the dirt path, his robes flaring behind him. For a moment, Harry was reminded of Snape, then he hurried to catch up.

“Malfoy. Tell me. What the fuck is going on?”

Malfoy remained silent, walking with long strides across the hard earth.

“Tell me!”

He shot a contemptuous glance at Harry. “I am a deacon. A transitional deacon. That means I'm awaiting ordination as a priest. I serve here at the church of St Thomas à Becket. I've been here for four months. I lead prayers every morning for the faithful, before spending the day helping Father Rose with his tasks. I assist with Mass. I visit parishioners. I do good works. I pray.” He glanced at Harry again. “I pray a lot.” He twitched his robes away from another puddle, revealing neat black boots beneath. “That is, as you so eloquently put it, what the fuck is going on.”

Harry felt his face pulling in ridiculous directions as he struggled to make sense of it all. “But— Where have you _been_?”

Malfoy shrugged. “In Rome.”

“In _Rome_?”

“At the Venerable English College.” He saw Harry's blank look. “A seminary. Studying to become a priest. There were forty of us there.” The ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth again. “It was a bit like Hogwarts.”

“Merlin, Malfoy, I don't— I just can't believe it.”

“Don't, then,” Malfoy answered. They had reached a gate, and Malfoy pushed it open and walked through, closing it again before Harry could follow him. “Goodbye. I need to go and help Father Rose now. There's a Parish Council meeting tonight.”

“But—” Harry leant on the gate, almost dizzy at the unexpected strangeness of it. “My god. You mean— It's true. You really are a priest.”

“A _deacon_ , Potter.” Irritation creased his face. “They haven't made me a priest yet.” He drew in and let out a long breath. “I have to go. Enjoy the rest of your holiday.”

“Is that it? Goodbye?” Harry called, but Malfoy just kept on walking. “Nobody's seen you for nearly six years, nobody knows where you are, where you've been, and you're just going to—”

Malfoy stopped again and turned. “You're not going to tell anyone.” There was a hint of violence in his voice. Something Harry hadn't heard for a long time. He felt his skin turning to gooseflesh in recognition.

“What if I do?”

Malfoy's jaw clenched. He walked back to the gate and spoke in confidential tones. “Look. I'm... happy here. What harm does it do to keep quiet about the fact that you saw me?”

“I just want to understand _why_ —”

“What's so hard to understand about the fact that I wanted to change my life? That I wanted to leave some things behind?” There was a definite edge to the words. Malfoy swallowed, and Harry stared as his prominent Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. When he carried on, his voice was quieter again. “That I found something in my life that was important to me.”

Harry found he didn't have an answer to that. _Something that was important._ Yes, he could understand leaving everything behind, if that was what lay ahead.

“Do you... I mean...” How could you ask such a thing?

Luckily, Malfoy seemed to know exactly what he was thinking. “Do I believe? Yes, of course.” He looked down, almost shyly. Harry had never noticed before how pale his eyelashes were. He looked up at Harry from beneath them. “I really do have to go, Potter. I know there's a lot of history between us – but you won't spoil this for me. Will you?”

Harry's mouth felt dry. He didn't know what on earth to say to this changed Malfoy. It was hardly credible... but there he was, as real and solid as the gate, as that oak tree stretching its branches out overhead. Malfoy was wearing priest's – no, _deacon's_ – robes and was about to go and get ready for a Parish Council meeting.

Harry nodded. “OK. I didn't come here to cause trouble for you.”

Malfoy's eyes flashed, and that trace of a smirk appeared again for an instant. “Thank you. Well, goodbye.” Malfoy raised a hand, as if to make a symbol of blessing, but then stopped and merely made a gesture of farewell before hurrying along the path, robes billowing, his blond hair catching the light. Harry stood and watched until he rounded a corner and disappeared from view.

~~

The cottage he'd rented was a ten-minute walk from the church, set back from the narrow road up a steep path with steps running along one side of the sloping garden. Harry used the key to let himself in and promptly tripped over his bag, which lay just inside the door where he had dumped it earlier.

The place was small, clean and comfortable. Everything he needed to live simply and quietly. He’d had such hopes for a relaxing few days when he arrived that afternoon, but now confusion churned in his chest, a jumbled mixture of feelings he associated more with the past. With Malfoy.

He unpacked his bag, hardly registering where he was putting things, then took a pot of tea into the tiny paved garden at the back of the house and sat watching a blue tit flying to and fro.

He had seen Malfoy. And it seemed like Malfoy was telling the truth – about becoming a priest – but something was just plain fishy about it. Harry got up and went back into the house, to stare balefully at the fireplace. No Floo, dammit. And he hadn't brought an owl. He needed to talk to someone – to Hermione, ideally – but it hardly seemed worth the effort it would take. Instead he went back into the garden, where he sat, brooding and drinking tea, until the light fell away behind the trees.

~~

In the morning, frying bacon on the small hob, it seemed preposterous that he had ever seen Malfoy. He imagined telling Ron that Malfoy had joined the church. Had found God.

“Malfoy?” Ron would splutter. “You've got to be joking, mate.”

Harry pictured the two of them laughing at how Malfoy had fooled Harry. He hadn't fooled him for long, mind you. Only for a minute or two. He felt better just thinking about Ron's face and the way he would slap his thigh and let out big buffeting laughs. “Priceless, Harry! Malfoy – a fucking priest!”

Anybody could get hold of priest's clothes, if they had a mind to. Anybody could hang about in a church looking like they had a right to be there. And anybody – anybody, but particularly Malfoy – could lie through their teeth about what they were up to. Harry had no idea what it was that Malfoy was trying to hide, but he was bloody sure that things were not as they seemed. He thought again about getting to a Floo and speaking to Hermione. There had been that dark year... after the War … Hermione had dealt with more or less everything that he couldn't manage. He knew he still had a tendency to lean on her, but she was just a very capable person when things got tricky.

Then an uneasy memory surfaced – of Hermione saying, in a kind, patient voice, “Malfoy isn't _always_ up to something, Harry.”

Well, this time he was. And it would be fairly simple to prove it. Malfoy had said he led the prayers every morning. So, if Harry happened to drop by the church again and Malfoy wasn't there, Harry would know he was right. And he definitely was right.

He'd seen a leaflet on the table, amongst the scatter of tourist attractions and takeaway menus the landlady had provided for guests. He turned the bacon down low and went to rifle through the pile. Here it was. A simple photocopied sheet: _St Thomas à Becket. Morning prayer – 7.45 a.m._

Dammit! He'd missed it already.

But then: _Wednesdays – 9.00 a.m. Mass._

Harry glanced at the clock. It was five to nine. If he hurried...

He grabbed his jacket, locked the door, the key slipping in his clumsy fingers, took the uneven stone steps of the garden as quickly as he dared and was hustling along the street before he realised he'd left the bloody bacon sizzling on the hob and would have to turn back.

~~

Five past nine. Harry made his way along the gravelly path and took a deep breath, before pushing at the solid wood of the door. The organ was playing a hymn, and several parishioners stood singing, mostly older men and women, their grey heads dotted around the pews in ones and twos, but also a young couple holding a baby in their arms, and a few women in their thirties and forties. Harry slipped in at the back and took an empty spot to the side.

The priest was standing before the altar, not wearing black robes, as Malfoy had done, but white and gold vestments, richly embroidered at the front and the hem. He was in his sixties, his white hair cut close to his head and small wire-rimmed glasses perched on his angular nose.

The congregation took a collective breath and launched into the next verse of the psalm. Harry fumbled with the hymn book in front of him, but not having a clue which page to turn to, he just opened it at random and held it in what he hoped was a convincing manner, while actually scoping out the clergy at the front.

There were two older men assisting the priest: one dark-haired with a broad frame which filled out his robes, the other bald, stooped and skinny. Probably the _real_ deacons, Harry thought. He’d known damn well that Malfoy wasn't going to be here. He felt a bit foolish, barging in on these people's private worship and wasting his holiday like this to check up on Malfoy, but then he thought of Lillian and the fact that she'd probably stood here many a time. It wasn't a waste.

And then the hymn ended, and a slim figure stepped out from where he'd been obscured from Harry's view by a pillar and walked towards the priest, carrying a large book. Like the priest, he was dressed all in white with an embroidered gold sash. Sweet Merlin, it _was_ Malfoy. Harry nearly dropped the hymnal, his fingers scrabbling to keep it from falling as he watched Malfoy open the book and hand it to the dark-haired man, who held it for the priest. Malfoy in white flowing robes. Malfoy bowing his head devoutly. Malfoy retreating carefully to his position to one side of the altar.

Sweet mother of Merlin. Malfoy was a fucking deacon. Harry felt like whimpering, surprise and dismay bubbling up at the base of his throat.

Malfoy glanced towards the congregation and gave a visible start as he saw Harry still standing, half-frozen at the back. Everyone else had sat down already. Harry sank shakily down onto the reassuring solidity of the pew. Malfoy turned again to face the priest, standing side on to the congregation with his back perfectly straight and face wiped clean of the shock he had shown. Oh god. It was true. Harry couldn't understand why this unsettled him so much. Light was pouring in through the leaded glass of the windows, picking out motes of dust and illuminating all in its path like a spotlight. It caught at Malfoy's bright hair, the gold and white of his vestments, his pale, angular face. It almost made him seem to shine from within. He was like something from an illustrated mediaeval book, from a fairy tale.

The priest began to recite words, but for all Harry understood they were a different language. Maybe they actually _were_ a different language. Around Harry, the congregation answered and then waited for the priest to continue, but all Harry could see was Malfoy's face, serious, intent, his mouth moving in response to the priest and then falling silent. He looked... reverent. Something unbearable twisted in Harry's gut, and he got to his feet and made his way along the pew with stumbling steps, vaguely aware that Malfoy's face was turned in his direction again, to watch him make his inelegant exit.

Afterwards, he couldn't remember anything of the walk home, only getting back to the cottage and finding it still filled with the good, honest smell of bacon. Harry ate it straight from the pan as if starving, picking up the strips with his fingers and savouring the sharpness of the salt, the succulent feel of the meat against his tongue.

 ~~

He'd planned to visit Halesworth, five miles to the west, to see if he could find out anything more about his mother's family. There were records of a Stanley Evans living in Halesworth in 1920, and Harry had a hunch that there was a connection, but instead, he consulted his tourist's edition of _Plumshackle's Wizarding Gazetteer_ and found that the nearest public Floo was at Southwold town hall.

It was far quicker by ferry than by road. Harry sat in the bows with a small puddle at his feet, admiring the smooth, easy strokes with which the ferryman pulled the boat across the river. He was about Harry's age and very fit, his muscular legs tanned beneath cut-off denim shorts, and when he caught Harry looking, he gave him a crooked smile of encouragement.

Harry turned away, his neck flushing hot with chagrin. This kept happening lately and he didn't know what to do about it. He didn't mean to look. He only wanted to— He didn't know what he wanted.

The ferry was near the river mouth, and once on the Southwold side, it was a long tramp along the beach to get to the market square. Plenty of time to think about Malfoy. Harry kicked out at a stone and watched it rattle away down the shore towards the sea. Why did this have to happen now? He hadn't thought about Malfoy in years. And now, there he was, back in Harry's head, smirking at him with his stupid, eternally pointy face. Except this morning Malfoy hadn't smirked. Malfoy had worn a solemn expression. Harry couldn't stop picturing the worshipful curve of his neck and the way the light had seemed to seek him out, clinging to his robes and the golden sweep of his hair.

Harry stumbled over a tuft of scrubby grass among the dunes and swore, colourfully and at length, until a large Labrador bounding past made him aware of the pair of Muggle ladies about to overtake him. They must have been in earshot of his foul mouth, judging by the severe looks they sent in his direction. This was stupid – he should have just Apparated to speak with Hermione. But for some reason he was reluctant to leave Suffolk and its rather dreamy, slowed-down pace until his holiday was properly over.

By the time Harry reached the town hall he felt hot and tired and his shoes were revoltingly full of sand. He shook his fringe down over his scar and frowned at the neat young man sitting at the reception desk. “Err...” He couldn't remember how one was meant to ask discreetly.

“May I help you?”

Harry looked doubtfully at the man's distinctly unwizardly appearance. “Well. I, er, wanted to...”

The young man tilted his head and smiled. “Did you wish to use _the facilities_?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, thanks.” But did he mean the Floo? Or just the toilets? He wouldn't have much luck trying to contact Hermione by sticking his head down the loo, thought Harry, and had to suppress a snort as the receptionist took him along the hall and opened a door with a small flourish.

“Here you are, sir. Did you wish to travel, or merely to make a call?”

Harry noted with relief that the room contained a desk, an armchair, a large fireplace and no toilet. “Oh, er, it's just to make a call.”

“Very good. Kindly keep calls to under five minutes, if possible.” He closed the door quietly as he left.

Harry cast a quick Colloportus and crossed the room to the fireplace. A china jar of Floo powder stood discreetly on the mantelpiece, and Harry took a pinch. The hearthstones were chilly on the knees. “Hermione Granger's office,” he said clearly, before thrusting his head into the flames. He braced himself against the revolting spinning sensation, keeping his eyes closed until he heard Hermione speak.

“Harry! What on earth? I've got a client in two minutes.”

Bugger. He should have guessed, really. Hermione always had a client in two minutes. At the War trials, the concept of someone to speak on behalf of a defendant had gained respectability, and in the following years Hermione had built up a Magical Law practice with her usual determination, becoming highly in demand.

“Another time, then—” Harry said, but Hermione stopped him.

“No! Wait. What is it? What's wrong?”

Hmm. Hermione hadn't got out of the habit of worrying about him, any more than he had got out of the habit of consulting her. Harry realised he had no idea what to say. He had sort of planned to drop the topic of Malfoy into casual conversation and see how Hermione reacted. But she wasn't playing along at all. “Why would anything be wrong?”

She rolled her eyes. “Why else would you be Flooing me when you're on holiday?”

“Maybe I just wanted to have a chat?”

“Harry, you look like you've hardly slept. You're meant to be relaxing, and yet you've tracked down a Floo to speak to me – so we can have a _chat_? Why didn't you Apparate, anyway?”

Harry didn't feel he wanted to get into that right now. “Look, there _is_ something.”

“Yes?” Hermione raised her eyebrows.

“Well, it's... it's Malfoy.”

“ _Malfoy_? You mean – Draco?”

“Yup.”

“What about him? You've not seen him?”

Harry nodded, then instantly remembered Malfoy's plea not to tell anyone. It wasn't like he had actually agreed, though...

“Merlin, Harry. Where?”

“In a church. At Blythburgh. Hermione, this is really weird, but... it seems like he's a priest. Well. Nearly a priest. A deacon.”

“ _What_?”

“I know. I didn't believe it, either. But I think maybe he is.”

“He's not been seen for something like five years.”

“I know. It was kind of a shock.” That didn't really cover it, but Harry didn't have words for the peculiar mixture of emotions that seeing Malfoy had stirred in him.

“Did you speak to him?”

Harry nodded. “Kind of. But I didn't really think— I just don't trust him. But then, today...”

There was an impatient knock at the door at Hermione's end.

“One moment!” she called, then turned back to Harry. “Hell, I must go. But I'll look into this, of course. When are you coming back?”

Harry shrugged. “I don't know. I had to book the cottage for a week, but I thought I'd probably only stay a couple of days.”

“You're not planning to follow him about or anything?” She gave him a hard stare. “Oh, Harry! You're meant to be having a break!”

“I _am_.” Harry felt his chin jutting defiantly. “I like it here. It's nothing to do with Malfoy.”

There was another knock on the door. Hermione threw her hands up. “ _Oh._ Just don't do anything stupid. I'll be in touch.”

Harry withdrew his head and shook a fair amount of ash out of his hair. Bloody hell. He knew he should have spoken to Ron instead.

 ~~

When he got back to the cottage, Malfoy was sitting on the doorstep.

“Bloody hell,” said Harry.

Malfoy stood up and brushed the dust off his clothes. “'How nice to see you, Deacon Malfoy. Won't you come in?'”

“Come in. Bloody hell, though, Malfoy.”

Malfoy sat on the chubby armchair in the sitting room while Harry busied himself making tea. He didn't know why it unsettled him so much, having Malfoy there in the house. He wasn't intimidated by Malfoy... that would be ridiculous. But he couldn't deny that finding him there on the doorstep was a bit of a surprise. Malfoy kept catching him off guard – being places Harry wasn't expecting him to be. He had felt safe at the little cottage – it was his own private space, and now Malfoy was sitting in it. It was disconcerting. There was only so long Harry could draw the process out, though, of finding biscuits and saucers and so on, and in the end he was left with no choice but to carry the tray through.

Malfoy was wearing a pair of fitted dark trousers with a black shirt and the customary stiff white priest's collar. Harry thought irritably that if Malfoy would just stop changing his clothes all the time then he could get used to this a whole lot quicker.

And there was something else that was bothering him. “How did you find out where I was staying?”

Malfoy shrugged. “You can tell you've never lived in a village.”

Harry poured the tea. What he meant to say was, “Do you want milk?” But what came out was, “Why are you here?” It didn't sound very friendly, either.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “I live here.”

Harry put a cup down on the table in front of Malfoy. Some of it slopped into the saucer. “I mean, why are you here, where I'm staying?”

“That's a good question.” Malfoy added milk and took a tentative sip. “It was my belief that we'd agreed to leave one another in peace the last time we spoke.”

Harry nodded.

“But then you turn up at Mass this morning and I'm left wondering, why is Harry Potter harrassing me?”

“ _Harrassing_ you?” Harry felt like squirming under Malfoy's intense gaze. Surely he hadn't been doing anything like that?

“You said you weren't here to cause trouble for me. Yet the next morning you turn up at my place of work, then leave, making rather a disturbance I might add. Am I to expect this to continue?”

“No.” Harry plonked the biscuits crossly next to Malfoy's cup. “I just— No.”

“Do you have any reason to be following me around?”

“I was not following you around!” Why did everyone keep suggesting that he was?

“Am I, to your knowledge, doing anything that I shouldn't?”

Harry crossed his arms across his chest. “No.”

“You don't object, for instance, to me organising jumble sales? That is, after all, what I spent a large part of today doing.”

“No,” said Harry.

“Perhaps you're concerned about my habit of feeding the birds in the churchyard. Or of advising people about their spiritual dilemmas. Or is it the praying that bothers you, Potter? Is that it?”

So Malfoy was not always saintly. He could still get pissed off with Harry. He also had retained his tendency towards sarcasm. In fact, he was still a bit of a tosser. Harry found this fact reassuring, for some reason. But possibly he was just a tosser who went around organising jumble sales.

“No,” said Harry, trying not to grit his teeth. “What you do is really of no interest to me. And I'm leaving on Friday, anyway.”

“Good.” Malfoy took another drink of tea. “And you're not going to tell anyone you've seen me.” It was noticeably a command rather than a question.

Damn. Why did Malfoy have to bring that up? “That's up to me, not you.”

Malfoy banged the cup back down in the saucer. “Do you always have to be so--?” He cut himself off, lips pinched together, and stared at the tea which had splashed onto the table. He took a slow breath and then took a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped it away. When he spoke again it was with an effort to sound relaxed, but the tendons on his neck were standing out. “All I am asking, Potter, is that you mind your own business for once. Do you think that would be too much trouble?” He lifted the teacup again and drank the last inch.

"It won't be any trouble at all. I'm just trying to have a fucking holiday, to be honest. You were about the last person on earth I was hoping to see here."

It sounded far ruder, far more personal, than he had intended. Harry noticed Malfoy's hand was shaking slightly as he placed the cup back on its saucer with care. He remembered Malfoy's words from the previous day. _You won't spoil this for me. Will you?_ And his face at Mass, before he had seen Harry. It had looked... there was something peaceful about it. Could he really begrudge Malfoy this new life he appeared to have made for himself?

“I think I'll go.” Malfoy stood up, rather stiffly, his shoulders thin and tense beneath the black shirt, and Harry rose too and took a step towards him.

“Look, Malfoy... I'm sorry.”

Malfoy's eyes flickered, but he kept his expression neutral.

“I didn't mean to... bother you.”

Malfoy remained silent, while Harry tried to read his face. The line of his mouth looked almost regretful, and he looked at the floor for a moment, then back at Harry.

“All right. Let's put it behind us,” he said eventually.

He let himself out, and walked away down the steep steps. Harry made himself shut the door and start to tidy away the tea things rather than follow the pull in his stomach which wanted to stand and watch him go.

 ~~

It was about 6 o'clock and Harry was standing in the kitchen cutting some bread for tea when an unholy racket started from the sitting room. It began with a loud clank and continued with several different kinds of clattering. As Harry rushed in, breadknife in hand, an unearthly scraping noise had him covering his ears and then a clanging thud heralded the arrival of a head in his fireplace.

“Mr Harry Potter?” the head enquired.

“Bloody hell!” Harry said. Was this what happened to other people when they went away for a few quiet days? Death Eaters turning up as clergy, and then unexpected noisy heads in grates?

“Are you Mr Harry Potter?” the head repeated. It wore an unpleasant bristly moustache and had the air of carrying a clipboard.

“Yes.” Harry ran a hand through his hair and then realised he was still holding the breadknife and would probably have his ear off in a minute.

“I am pleased to inform you that your temporary Floo Installation is complete.”

“But I didn't—”

“Sign here.” The head sprouted shoulders and arms, then produced a parchment and quill, which it waved at Harry from the coals.

Harry leant down and scrawled his name on the form. “But—”

“Good afternoon, Mr Potter.” The head removed itself as quickly as (but a good deal more quietly than) it had arrived and Harry was left staring at the empty fireplace. Apparently, he had a working Floo. But—

The head reappeared, along with one arm, and proffered a small jar. “Nearly forgot - your complimentary supply of Floo Powder.”

Harry leaned down again for the jar. “Er. Thank you.”

“All part of the service, Mr Potter. Good afternoon.”

He had barely had time to put the powder on the mantelpiece when Hermione's head appeared. She was coughing.

“Typical – so dirty. I wish they'd sweep them properly before—”

“Hermione! What—”

“I've had you connected to the Floo Network for the duration of your stay, Harry. It was the simplest way.” She gave another cough and wiped her eyes.

“How come everyone knows exactly where I'm staying?”

She waved a hand. “That was simple. Look, I needed to speak to you about Malfoy.”

“Oh, that. Don't worry about it. Really." Harry felt an uncomfortable twinge of guilt. "It just threw me a bit at first. I know it sounds ludicrous, but he seems quite settled here. I think... I think he just wants to get on with his life.”

“I spent the afternoon trying to persuade someone to let me look at his file. They're such awful sticklers for procedure down at the Auror department; it was a right pain in the backside.”

Harry hid a smile. Hermione was an awful stickler for procedure herself. It was only in other people that she regarded this trait as an inconvenience.

“If it wasn't for the fact that I got Jephcott's mother off that shoplifting charge, they'd never have—” She had another coughing fit. “The dust in here! I've a good mind to report those Floo engineers.”

“Honestly, Hermione, there's no need to bother about Malfoy any more. I'm sorry I wasted your time. I'm just going to get on with my holiday and try to forget the whole thing.”

“But I've looked at his file, and there's something very—”

“Seriously, I think we should leave him in peace. He's entitled to his privacy, and—”

“Harry, will you listen? There are wards on his file, I couldn't read the whole thing, but at the time he disappeared, the Aurors were looking for him. There's something decidedly odd about it.”

Something was stirring the hairs at the nape of Harry's neck. “What kind of odd?”

“I don't know. Look – you are sure it was him you saw?”

Harry nodded. “Absolutely sure.”

“Well. I didn't tell anyone. But I think we have to.”

“No!”

“Harry, he's wanted by the Aurors. Where's he been? They must have done location spells.”

“He said Rome.”

“That would probably be far enough away... And what about his wand? They would have traced it, surely?”

“I think he's living as a Muggle. Wizards don't often join the church, do they?”

“No, almost never, unless it's a family tradition or something... And magic's frowned on within pretty much all branches of Christianity, obviously. It would be risky for him to use his wand, I suppose. But look, either way, we can't just pretend that you don't know where he is.”

Harry thought furiously. His brain seemed suddenly alert, his body taut with anticipation. “What if I... stay here a bit longer? Try to find out what's going on. Malfoy would talk to me, perhaps—”

“Harry, this is a matter for the relevant department. You can't just go off by yourself and play at Aurors.”

 _You had your chance at that._ The unspoken words seemed to hang in the air. Harry wasn't sure when he would stop feeling a throbbing anger at the memory of it. How frustrated he had been by the protocols, the endless drills... the sodding paperwork, for god's sake. By the end of six months he was ready to Crucio somebody, and the advice from Kingsley to take a break and try again in a few years had come in many ways as a huge relief.

He didn't have to follow procedure here, anyway. He could do just what he liked. In fact, he felt an impatience to begin. “Malfoy knows I'm here already. He's... OK with me.” Well, it wasn't a total lie. Malfoy had sat and drunk Harry's tea, hadn't he? “I could get him talking. Find out what happened. If a load of Aurors turn up, he's sure to have some escape plan, and anyway, how do we know he actually did anything in the first place?”

There was a little crease in between Hermione's eyebrows. He felt guilty for having put it there.

“This is serious, though, Harry. It could be dangerous.”

Harry thought of Malfoy's lips moving, reciting words in Latin that Harry didn't understand. He felt the ghost of a shiver run across his back. “I can handle it. Just... give me a couple of days.”

Hermione was wearing that patient look, the one Harry really hadn't wanted to see.

“Maybe three,” he added.

She sighed.

“Just till the weekend! After that, if you think we should still call the Aurors, I'll do it. I'll turn him in myself. OK?”

She bit her lip. He could see her teetering.

“Come on. For me? Just don't tell anyone for a few more days.”

“Oh, Merlin, all right then! But this is so irresponsible, you really have to—”

“It's going to be fine. I just have a hunch about this.”

“Oh, your hunches!”

“My hunches are top-notch. And I've got a Floo, now. I can contact you straight away if I need any help.”

“Yes, do. Tell me what's happening. Ugh, I've got to go. Another meeting. Merlin, I'm never going to get home tonight.”

Harry made a sympathetic face. “Good luck.”

“And you! And, Harry— Take care. Please.”

 ~~

Harry's knees were starting to ache. Maybe this had been a stupid idea. For all he knew Malfoy wasn't even working at the church today, but it had seemed like the best place to start.

He had half-decided to give up and check out the local pub instead, when he heard a door swing shut from somewhere near the altar. Measured footsteps came tapping along from the front of the church and stopped by the pew where Harry was kneeling. Harry's heart was behaving rather skittishly, but he kept his eyes tightly closed and tried to look as if he were concentrating very hard on something.

Malfoy's voice was clipped and cold. “What. Are you doing?”

Harry opened his eyes a fraction. Malfoy was standing in front of him, wearing his flowing robes again, his thighs hidden under the folds at Harry's eye level. “What does it look like?” he asked.

“Looks like someone can't get it into their head when they're not wanted.” Malfoy's hands clenched at his sides.

“This is a church, yes?”

Malfoy didn't answer, merely curled his lip.

“It's open to the public.”

“It's open for _worship_ ,” Malfoy corrected.

“It's a church,” Harry repeated stubbornly. “And I'm praying.”

Malfoy's knuckles were whitening. “Potter, if you continue to pester me like this, I shall have no choice but to—”

“I'm not doing anything.”

“You're. Still. Here.” Malfoy forced the words out through gritted teeth.

“I came because I need some help.”

Malfoy's hand flew up in a frustrated gesture, then fell down again at his side. “Help? With what?”

“I'm— I want to know about your faith.”

“Surely even you realise that is usually a private matter.”

“No, I mean, I want to – to learn about it. Maybe I want to, to believe, as well.” Harry knew as he said it that it wasn't true. But it seemed the most likely way to get Malfoy to soften a little.

Malfoy's expression was inscrutable. Harry was still kneeling down, his knees complaining bitterly about the solidity of the wood. “Look, could we go somewhere else?”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes.

“To talk?” Harry continued.

“I think I was quite clear about not wishing to talk to you any further.”

“But, it's your job. You can't turn me away. Can you?”

“There are countless churches in the British Isles, Potter, at any one of which you could seek spiritual instruction. I'm sure they would be delighted to help you in any way possible—”

“But I didn't go to any church, did I? I came here.” Harry looked up at Malfoy's tense, angry face. What would a trainee priest most want to hear? Inspiration came to him. “Maybe I was led here. For a reason.” Well. It sounded a bit lame, even to Harry's ears. But no-one could deny that it was an odd coincidence.

“You're suggesting that _God_ brought you here?”

Harry lifted one shoulder. “Perhaps.”

Malfoy leaned closer, gripping the top of the pew so he loomed above Harry. “Let me guess. You think God wants to punish me, by sending Harry Potter to plague me—”

“Perhaps it's a test. You know. Of your faith. Before you become a priest. You need to help me...” Harry waved his hand. “Find salvation. Or something.”

Malfoy made a dismissive noise and looked as if he would turn away. On impulse, Harry reached up and grabbed the hand that rested on the pew in front of him. How could he make him listen? “Malfoy.” Malfoy's fingers were cool and smooth. “I really do— I would appreciate your help.” He was only coming out with these things to try and win Malfoy's trust. So why did it feel the way it did to say them?

Malfoy still didn't speak, but his gaze flicked over Harry's eyes, to his mouth, and back.

“I feel sort of lost.” Harry felt like there was something stuck in his throat. “I really do.”

Malfoy wet his lips, but still didn't speak. His robes smelled of incense, and his hand lay very still underneath Harry's. Malfoy drew in a gulp of air, and Harry found that he was holding his own breath, and then the side door swung open again and Malfoy snatched his hand away as if Harry's fingers had scalded him.

It was the white-haired priest Harry had seen leading Mass. He was carrying prayer books, but stopped when he caught sight of them, a look of concern on his face. “Deacon Malfoy,” he said. “Is anything the matter?”

Malfoy shook his head. “No, Father.”

The priest addressed Harry. “Good morning! I don't believe I have seen you in our parish before?”

Malfoy stepped back, and Harry finally got to his feet, his knees grudgingly straightening out.

“Father Rose, may I introduce Harry Potter?” He turned to Harry. “This is the Reverend Father Peter Rose.”

The priest's hand was chilly and limp. Harry shook it quickly and let go. “I'm just visiting the area.”

“Ah, welcome. It is a beautiful spot.”

Harry agreed.

“I hope you have a most pleasant visit. Is there anything we can assist with? Is Deacon Malfoy looking after you?”

Harry glanced at Malfoy, but he was looking down at his own feet. “He, er— Yes, he is. Thank you.”

“Well, I hope we'll meet again. Please excuse me.” He caught Malfoy's eye. “Meeting with Mrs Leewood about the Communion class. I should be finished in an hour or so.”

His footsteps echoed away across the stone and then the church seemed very quiet. Harry could see Malfoy's chest swelling and falling again under his robes. He was staring into space, as if trying to make his mind up. Harry kept quiet, and then—

“You'd better come with me.” Malfoy turned and walked away, leaving Harry to follow behind.

 ~~

They were in what Malfoy had called the side-chapel – a small, simply-decorated room – sitting on hard-backed chairs near the small altar. Malfoy had not spoken since leading Harry to the chapel, but instead sat with his eyes closed and his lips slightly parted. Harry looked around the room, taking in the stained-glass window and the collection of small candles burning to one side, but his eyes kept being drawn back to Malfoy's face, the stillness and paleness reminding him of a carved statue. As he watched, Malfoy's eyes fluttered open and Harry could not manage to look away in time to avoid being caught, but Malfoy didn't seem surprised.

“You are interested in the Christian faith?” Malfoy asked.

Harry nodded. It wasn't a total lie. He wanted to know, for instance, what on earth someone like Malfoy got out of it. And how did he manage, living among Muggles like this?

“Have you ever attended church regularly? Were you brought up as a Christian?”

“I think I went with the school a few times. I mean— The Muggle school I went to before Hogwarts. That was it.”

“Why is this something you are drawn to now?”

Harry swallowed. “I, I feel a bit... as if I'm looking for something.” It was strange to sit and speak with Malfoy like this. To say things he'd previously only thought in his head. He told himself that this was a ruse, to get Malfoy interested. Yet, the more truth he sprinkled in with his story, the more convincing it sounded. “Nothing seems to mean much, in my life. I'm— I'm rather lonely, sometimes.” He hadn't meant to go so far. But somehow it was easy to let the words spill out, sitting here in this place which radiated calmness and peace. Malfoy only bent his head and listened.

“I... came to look for my family. Lillian, I told you about her. I feel a bit like I don't belong anywhere. My family – they're all dead. Almost all.” He frowned. “I've got a cousin. An aunt and uncle. Muggles. I don't see them.”

Malfoy stroked his hands across the robes in his lap. “Did you marry?”

“No. God, no.”

Malfoy inclined his head. “Why not?”

Harry blinked. “I— I'm not— It's not compulsory, you know, Malfoy!”

Malfoy raised his eyebrows. “No. But most people prefer not to live alone.”

“ _You_ live alone,” Harry accused. “Don't you?”

“That goes with the job.”

“I- Things didn't work out. With Ginny. And I haven't found anyone else I was interested in. Not... interested enough. For that.”

Malfoy placed his fingers together in his lap.

“I'm only twenty-five.”

Malfoy closed his eyes again, his expression neutral. Harry felt irritation rising up inside him. Were they just going to sit here like this, with Malfoy being all bland and pious at him?

“Sometimes I look at blokes.”

Malfoy's eyes sprang open quite gratifyingly.

“I suppose you believe that's a sin.” Harry curled his lip. He had no idea why he was saying these things, but he didn't seem to be able to stop.

Malfoy's eyebrows rose up towards his hair before he regained his composure. “The church teaches us that homosexual acts are sinful.”

“Looking – is that sinful?”

“Is that all you have done?” Malfoy's eyes swept over Harry's face.

“Yes.”

Malfoy's fingers wound together again in his lap. “Impure thoughts are not necessarily a sin, but they are dangerous. We should pray, and ask God to help you resist these temptations—”

“But how can I resist? I'm not doing it on purpose. I don't even want to feel that way, but I can't stop it, and—”

Malfoy swallowed, his Adam's apple looking uncomfortably large in his narrow throat. “I think perhaps Father Rose might be able to advise you on such matters—”

“But he's a Muggle, isn't he?”

Malfoy nodded.

“I don't want to talk to a Muggle. I'd have to watch what I say all of the time. I might let something slip.” He was pretty sure Malfoy couldn't argue with that. “You wouldn't want him to find out about you, would you?”

“Keep your voice down,” Malfoy hissed.

Harry thought. How could they talk if Malfoy was constantly worried about being discovered? “We should go somewhere else. Somewhere we can't be overheard.”

Malfoy got up from his chair. “What we should do is pray together.”

“I don't really know how—”

But Malfoy was already kneeling down at the altar rail. He bent his head, exposing the smooth line of his neck. Harry stood awkwardly behind him. The hairs at Malfoy's nape tapered into a perfect V and then a line of the finest white-blond hairs descended beneath the dog-collar. Malfoy glanced up at Harry, and waited until Harry knelt down at his side.

“What should I say?”

“Open your mind. Ask for guidance. God will show you what to do.”

Harry closed his eyes. _Open your mind?_ This was like the opposite of Occlumency lessons. Maybe Malfoy was telling him to let his guard down on purpose, so that he could use Legilimency on Harry? He held his breath, waiting for the probing feeling of Malfoy entering his mind, but he felt nothing except a hot, fidgety sensation all over his skin.

It was so quiet, the only sound Harry's slightly accelerated breathing. Had Malfoy moved closer to him? He felt like their knees were almost touching. He took a deep breath and found his nostrils filled again with the scent of incense, sweet and heady, and underneath it, something else, a hint of warm skin. Malfoy's robes were brushing against his knees and he imagined he could feel the heat from his body through the thick material. What was Malfoy thinking? Was he _really_ praying? Just as an experiment, Harry tried to be receptive, to open himself to guidance, but the only thing in his head was a growing awareness of the fact that beneath Malfoy's starchy robes there was another beating heart, a body humming with warmth and life and vibrancy.

He sneaked another look at Malfoy, who remained perfectly still with his head bowed, but it was as if Harry could feel waves of energy drawing Harry's attention to him, like the moment in a wandless Accio before the Summoned object sprang into one's hand. Malfoy's lips were even moving, as if in incantation, and Harry's hand went automatically to his wand before he realised it was more likely that Malfoy _was_ praying after all. He looked away, uncomfortable to be spying on such a private act, but his eyes were soon drawn back against his will. Malfoy's mouth was different to how Harry remembered it. When it wasn't twisted into a sneer or forming some put-down it looked softer, almost sensual, the lips curving gently around the words. Harry bent closer, wanting to hear, but whatever Malfoy was saying was frustratingly silent. For all Harry knew, it _was_ a spell.

How long were they going to wait like this?

_God will show you what to do._

Harry's whole body was twitching with impatience. Was this what God intended for Harry, then? To sit here, staring at Malfoy with mounting frustration? When he closed his eyes it was worse, the scent of incense maddening and the constant awareness of Malfoy's arm close to his as they knelt together. He couldn't concentrate on anything at all, and Malfoy clearly wasn't going to talk, just pray, with what felt like a weird restless energy rolling off him.

Suddenly, he couldn't stand it any longer. He got to his feet in a rush. Malfoy looked up at him in surprise.

“I've got to go,” Harry said. His voice sounded rough.

Malfoy's mouth held the suggestion of a mocking smile. “Had enough?”

“I still want to talk,” Harry said. “Just— Not now. Come for supper.” The words blurted out, surprising him. “At the cottage. You know where it is. Come tonight.”

Malfoy's eyebrows shot up again. Harry floundered on. “I really need to talk to someone. But not here. You know. Someone might hear.” He lowered his voice. “I need to talk about – where we come from.”

Malfoy was still kneeling at the altar rail. He wet his lips. “I'm busy tonight.”

That wasn't a no. “Tomorrow, then.”

“I'm … not sure it's such a good idea.” Malfoy held himself very straight and still.

“Please. I'm leaving soon.”

“I thought you were leaving tomorrow.”

“I decided to stay one more day. I'm definitely going on Saturday.” Harry didn't know why it felt so imperative to persuade Malfoy, but something in his voice must have conveyed the urgency he felt. He could see Malfoy's face shift into acquiescence

“Well, perhaps—”

“Yes,” Harry said. “Come at seven. Will you?”

Malfoy's lips pressed together and then he nodded. “All right. But then you're leaving?”

“Yes. On Saturday.”

“Goodbye, then.” Malfoy bent his head again. Harry was clearly dismissed. He walked out into the sunshine half-blind, squinting at the unexpected brightness.

 ~~

Friday passed in a strange haze of expectation. Harry walked to the village and bought a huge loaf peppered with seeds and grains. It was still warm from the oven and rested snugly under his arm as he chose plump tomatoes, a soft ripe brie, fat olives glistening with oil, and slices of cold meat, all from the deli adjoining the cafe. He had wondered if he should cook something, but it seemed strange to be cooking for another man. The whole thing was strange and slightly unreal. His stomach felt fizzy with something like nerves. After stashing the food back at the cottage he walked to the beach and stood looking at the waves for a while, but it didn't calm the sense of agitation.

Hermione had told him to take care. Maybe he was just worried that Malfoy was going to try something? That was ridiculous. Harry's wand was in his pocket where it always was, and it seemed likely he'd be more practised at using magic than Malfoy, so he couldn't imagine anything dangerous happening. But as the clock ticked nearer to seven, and then past seven, Harry found he couldn't sit still, instead rearranging the food on the table although everything was quite ready, with the plates laid out, and two glasses awaiting the wine that Harry had deliberated over. Did Malfoy even drink wine? He had taken the precaution of chilling a bottle of mineral water in the fridge as well.

He was hungry. He hadn't had much appetite for lunch, but now the food looked tempting, the cheese almost flowing over the plate with ripeness, the meats marbled with fat, and the sharp smell of the olives making his mouth water. He popped one into his mouth and then jumped at the sound of a knock on the door.

Malfoy had on the same kind of dark shirt and trousers that he had worn the first time he had visited the cottage. Harry felt irrationally angry at the sight of the stiff white collar peeping through at the throat of his shirt. It was seven p.m. on a Friday night. Surely Malfoy didn't have to dress like that?

“Haven't you finished work for the day?”

Malfoy followed Harry's gaze and his hand went to the collar. “We don't go off duty. And I was under the impression that this was a work call, actually.”

“But if I asked you out— I mean, invited you somewhere. Socially. You'd still wear that?”

Malfoy wrinkled his forehead. “Do you have a problem with it?”

“No.” There seemed no other answer. Harry realised that he hadn't even asked him inside. “Sorry. Come in.”

Malfoy was carrying something lumpy in a paper bag and he passed it to Harry. “Here,” he said. “Local asparagus.”

Harry peered in at the long green stalks. “Wow. Thanks.”

“A parishioner gave them to me this morning. I thought you might enjoy them. Just steam them and add a little butter.”

Harry's stomach chose that moment to rumble.

Malfoy smiled. “But you may not be able to wait that long.”

Harry felt himself colouring and turned away towards the kitchen. “I thought we'd eat in here. I mean... if you're hungry?”

Malfoy ducked to get through the low doorway on which Harry had cracked his own head a couple of times. As Malfoy stood staring at the table, Harry suddenly saw how the food looked, all laid out neatly with the wine in the middle, and the two chairs set close together. It looked like a fucking date.

Heat rushed to his face, and Harry found himself walking to the fridge and sticking his head inside as if looking for something. Merlin. “Sit down,” he told Malfoy over his shoulder.

“Thank you. This looks... very nice.”

This was fucking ridiculous. Why had Harry thought this was a good idea? Were they going to sit and be excruciatingly polite to each other like this all evening? God, he hoped Malfoy drank, even if he was still on duty.

“Wine?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

Thank fuck. Harry supposed he was actually going to have to take his head out of the fridge at some point.

“Can't find the butter... ah, there it is on the table.” He gave a little laugh. God. His hands were shaking as he poured the wine and, still standing, drank a draught. Why had he put the chairs so bloody close together? He picked his own up and moved it around to the other side of the table.

The wine seemed good, although Harry didn't know much about it other than what the woman in the shop had said. Malfoy took a sip, looking at Harry over the rim of the glass.

“Some bread?” Harry asked. He launched at it with the breadknife and passed Malfoy a hunk that was thicker than he had intended. “Help yourself,” he added, gesturing to the bowls on the table.

It was a cool evening, with a chill just beginning to creep in. Harry gestured with his wand at the open window, bringing it closed, then saw Malfoy staring.

“Did you want it open?”

“No...” Malfoy shook his head. “I just haven't seen anyone use magic for... quite a while.”

Harry helped himself to a good chunk of brie and then spooned salad onto his plate. “Were there no other wizards at the... what did you call it? The Seminary?”

“Not that I'm aware of.” Malfoy helped himself to a tomato. The food on his plate looked sparse compared to the pile on Harry's. No wonder he was still pointy.

“What was it like?”

“At the Seminary?” Malfoy's mouth pulled down at the corners. “It was... interesting.”

“In what way?”

“It was... different to what I was used to.” He took another sip of wine. “But you didn't ask me here to talk about myself.”

Harry fought the urge to shift uncomfortably in his seat. If only Malfoy knew.

“You said that you were looking for something. That you felt... lonely.” Malfoy speared a piece of salad with his fork. “Is that why you were hunting around for dead relations?”

“What a way to put it!”

“But is it?”

“Maybe.”

“We've got records, up at the parish secretary's office. Going back a couple of hundred years in some cases.”

Harry topped his own glass up with wine. Malfoy was being more prudent with his, but he topped it up anyway.

“Christenings. Marriages, you know. Burials, of course. Perhaps your great-grandmother might be in there.”

Harry's eyes widened. “Could we look?”

“If you like.” Malfoy buttered a piece of bread. “What time are you leaving tomorrow?”

“I hadn't decided.”

“Come to the church before twelve. There's a wedding in the afternoon. When was she born?”

“1911.”

“I'll hunt out the relevant books. They're all hand-written, of course. Quite something.”

Harry felt a stirring of excitement. Perhaps there were other relations of his in there. “That would be great.” He topped up Malfoy's wine again. “Thanks, Malfoy.”

 _Well. Maybe this wasn't turning out so badly, after all._ Malfoy's eyes were turning smoky in the darkening room. Harry started to get up, intending to light the lamps, but then something made him draw his wand and use that instead. Just to see Malfoy's reaction. He turned back to find Malfoy watching again with an almost hungry expression.

“You miss it, don't you?” Harry asked. His lips felt rather clumsy. The wine was apparently quite strong on an empty stomach.

Malfoy's jaw seemed to tighten. “The church is my life, now.”

“But you do miss it. Anyone would.”

“Sometimes.” Malfoy attempted a casual shrug, but it came out stiff.

“Why on earth did you decide to leave?”

Malfoy gave Harry a look of dislike. “I found God, obviously.”

“Did you?”

“Why else would I want to leave my family and my entire way of life and live shut away from the world for five years?”

Harry blinked at the bitterness in the words.

“Unless you think I just liked the idea of being locked away with forty young Muggles? Shut up together all day long.”

“Is that what it was like?”

Malfoy took a gulp of wine and his tongue came out to lick at his top lip. “You seem quite interested in that, to keep asking about it.”

So, they weren't just going to sit and be polite all evening, it seemed. “Are you going to throw that in my face? What I told you yesterday?”

“Have you done what I told you?” Malfoy leaned forward in his chair.

“What?”

“Have you prayed for guidance?”

Harry shook his head. “I'm not sure if I—”

“I spent five years praying, Potter. Do you think it helped?”

“I don't know, did it?”

Malfoy didn't answer, but pushed his plate away and took another swallow of wine. “When did you break up with that girl? Ginny.”

Harry felt strangely light-headed. This was crazy, that he and Malfoy were sitting here after all this time. Having this rather bizarre conversation, which seemed to be veering completely out of his control. “It was two years ago. But she broke up with me. I didn't—”

“Why?”

Harry narrowed his eyes at him. “What?”

“Why did she break up with you?”

“Merlin.” He laughed. “Is this meant to be helping me?”

Malfoy looked at him, his expression almost sly. “What kind of help do you think you need, exactly?”

“You're a priest. You're meant to help me find the right way to go.”

Malfoy's eyes flicked over Harry's face. “Did she leave you because you're bent?”

“Jesus, Malfoy!”

“You think Jesus can help you?”

“I— Bloody hell.” Harry's glass was empty again and, this time, so was Malfoy's. He filled them both up and spilled a little on the table.

“I think you would have loved it in the Seminary, Potter. All those young men. So fresh and unspoiled. So earnest. All searching for something. Just like you.”

He probably should have been sparing some time for eating, not just drinking and staring at Malfoy, but Harry found it was hard to take his eyes off him.

“But, here's the thing. You're not allowed to touch them. No touching at all. Oh, but I forgot: you _don't_ touch. You just like to look."

Harry opened his mouth, but Malfoy held up a hand.

"No, listen, because you need to understand. There's no looking allowed, either. In fact, no thinking about it. No thinking about any of that stuff. You have to pray for forgiveness if you happen to remember for one moment that you're a human being with good red blood in your veins instead of holy water.” Malfoy's voice was sour with resentment.

“What would you have done, Potter? Would you have stuck it out? Or would you have snapped?” Malfoy stroked one finger along the stem of his wine glass. Shivers ran along Harry's skin at his low, taunting tones. “I don't think you would have made it. I think it would have broken you. All that looking. I don't think you would have lasted a year.”

Harry felt hot and dizzy. He couldn't understand how they had got so far off the track. All he'd been trying to do was find out why Malfoy had left home, and this was where it had led, and now there didn't seem a single thing that was safe to say. He got up and opened the same window he had shut earlier, stood gulping air, but it wasn't enough. “Come for a walk,” he said. “The beach is just down there.”

Malfoy gestured at the food. “You should probably eat some more.”

Harry shook his head. “I need some air. We can take some of it with us, I guess?” He had bought some pastries for after the meal. Harry wrapped them up quickly along with the remains of the loaf and put them in a bag.

Malfoy crossed his arms and watched Harry as he picked up the wine bottle and found it nearly empty. There was another one in the cupboard. Malfoy didn't comment as Harry scooped it up and added it to his bag.

The clouds had cleared, and outside it was cooler than he was expecting it to be. Neither of them had a jacket, and Harry cast a Warming Charm as they walked along the narrow path that led down to the beach. Malfoy's shoes crunched evenly over the shingle path. He had his hands in his pockets and looked very aloof.

They reached the sand dunes and kept walking towards the sea. There were a few stars out already, and the sky was turning a bruised reddish-purple. A shorebird trilled out an eerie call as it flew home to roost. Harry stopped and looked at the water reflecting the lights from further down the coast. “She never actually told me why.”

Malfoy visibly started, as if pulled back from thoughts that had taken him a long way away. “I'm sorry?”

“Ginny. She never actually said why she was leaving.”

Harry could see the crease in between Malfoy's eyebrows deepen. “Oh. Right.”

“I mean, she said it wasn't working, and it wasn't my fault, and she just needed time. But. Do you think she knew?”

Malfoy stood silhouetted against the horizon. “About the looking?”

“Yes.”

Malfoy didn't speak for a minute, but looked out to sea where the waves were crashing down and drawing up, again and again. “I'd imagine so, yes.”

Harry swallowed. He wondered if anyone else knew. If Ginny had told anyone. “I didn't properly know myself, though. At the time.”

Malfoy gave a long sigh. “Do you really think a priest is the best person to unburden yourself to about this?”

Harry took a step closer to him. “You're not a priest, though. Not yet.”

Malfoy watched Harry's mouth as he spoke. “Not yet,” he repeated.

“When will you be?”

The crease deepened again. “I— I don't know.”

“Do you have to study more?”

“A little. And... ” He cocked his head on one side. “Do you happen to have any more of that wine?”

They sat down next to a tuft of coarse grass and Harry used his wand to neatly pop the cork out of the wine. He passed the bottle to Malfoy. “You could do magic, too, out here. No-one would see.”

Malfoy took a slug straight from the bottle and then slid his eyes sideways to look at Harry. “They're not sure if I'm quite ready. To become a priest, I mean.”

“Ah.”

“I need to work on my humility, apparently.” He gave a rather bitter chuckle and tilted his head back to draw from the wine bottle again, then passed it to Harry. “Amongst other things.”

The rim of the bottle was still warm from Malfoy's lips. Harry drank once, twice, and felt the heat of it settle in his stomach.

“I tried to join the Aurors,” Harry admitted. “That didn't work out, either.”

“Maybe you should try the priesthood. You'd fit right in.” A smirk flitted across Malfoy's lips, then fell away. “Why are you here, Potter?”

“I told you.”

“Yes, but why did you have to turn up _right now_?” He took the bottle out of Harry's hands and drank again.

“How was I supposed to know you'd be here?”

“You always did have to make things bloody difficult for me.”

“I'm not making things difficult – look, I said I'll be gone, tomorrow.”

“Yeah, that's perfect. You just crash around, not caring what you might stir up. Then swan off home again, none the wiser.”

“I— I don't know what the hell you're on about.”

“No, of course not. You don't know anything about anything.” The moon was coming up, a fat, silver-white disc, and Malfoy's face glowed pale and haughty against the black of the coastline.

“Do you— Do you still want to become a priest?”

Malfoy gave him a long, challenging look. “Why on earth wouldn't I? Why on earth would I have any regrets about that?”

“I'm not saying you do, just that—”

“What if I did have regrets, Potter? What then?” His eyes were gleaming like flints in the darkness.

“Well.” Harry swallowed. “I don't know. I suppose you could maybe come back home?”

Malfoy smiled, but it was a cruel, spiky thing. “Ah, of course. I could always go home. Yes. That would solve everything.” He took another swig from the bottle. “But what if I had to stay? What if I stayed and had regrets about other things? Things I never had the chance to do.”

“Like what?”

“Use your fucking imagination, why don't you?”

The waves crashed in and rolled out. In, and out, again and again, hypnotic and inexorable.

Harry looked at Malfoy. There was something almost menacing about him. A coiled intensity. “When you said... that I didn't care what I stirred up. What did you mean?”

Malfoy met his gaze. “What do you think I meant?”

The Warming Charm had worn off, and a shiver ran right through Harry, chilling him deep in his spine. “I asked you for help. But I reckon you're just as mixed up as me.”

Malfoy curled his lip in dislike. “You're an idiot.” He stood up. “I have to go. I should never have come.”

Harry scrambled to his feet. “What about tomorrow? The records.”

“Just go home, Potter.”

“If you won't show me, I'll ask someone else.”

Malfoy turned his head away, as if in pain. “Merlin. Come, then. One more time. I'll see you in the morning.” He was still holding the bottle, and he took another quick pull before thrusting it back into Harry's hand. “Enjoy the rest of this muck.”

His footsteps were muffled by the sand, leaving Harry alone with the sea, the stars and the bottle.

 ~~

In the morning, his head felt like two Trolls had fought it out in there. He hadn't packed any Hangover Potion, but he dug through his suitcase until he found the Pepper-Up and took a hearty swig, gasping at the sudden spicy taste. Harry's Pain-Relief Charms weren't the best, but he managed to deal with the worst of the headache, and after a breakfast of leftover bread and olives, he felt equipped to face the day.

He had that uneasy morning-after feeling, that somehow he had made a fool of himself in front of Malfoy. Or that he was likely to make a fool of himself in the future. But time was short, and he was determined to make another attempt at finding out the real story behind Malfoy being here. It seemed undeniable that Malfoy was genuinely undertaking the rigorous training necessary to join the priesthood. Harry was less sure of his motives for doing so. He also wasn't sure why every encounter with Malfoy left him feeling so unsettled. But as Harry walked the now-familiar route to the church, his pulse hummed with expectancy – presumably at the prospect of getting his hands on the record books.

The sweet peas in front of Lillian's grave were curled and dry-looking now, and after a moment's thought, Harry Vanished them and Conjured some tulips instead, a vivid red the colour of the yew berries.

It was disappointingly empty and silent inside the church, and Harry wondered if Malfoy would fail to keep his word after all. He made an impatient circuit of the nave, then slid into one of the pews near the back and sat looking at the stained-glass windows and the way the light shone through them to leave dappled colours on the floor.

Harry felt Malfoy enter the church before he heard him. He came quietly out of a side door, wearing his dark vestments and carrying a large and heavy book. His composed expression and measured movements were in stark contrast to the emotions of the previous night.

“You found it?” Harry asked, his voice rising in response to the sudden swell of hope in his chest.

Malfoy looked at Harry only for a moment, then turned his eyes back to the book he carried. “I found the right volume, at least. This way. We can look at it over here.” He took the book towards the back of the church and laid it on a table next to piles of hymn books and a collection box, then opened it near the beginning. Columns of neat handwriting covered the pages. Malfoy ran a long finger over the paper. “1911, you said?”

Harry squinted at the flowing script. It was fascinating. He'd used a computer at the library to search for parish records on the internet, but never seen them in person. “Yes. Lillian Mary Evans.”

“Lucky for you it's pre-war. The later ones are all up at the County Records Office. I don't even know how we ended up keeping all these. Father Rose said something about two sets made – one for the parish, and one for the Bishop.” He turned a page. “Ah. Here you are. 1911.”

“These are all the births that year?”

“The baptisms.”

They both ran their eyes over the entries. “There.” Malfoy pointed, and Harry read _5 February 1911, Lillian Mary, daughter of Thomas Evans, farmer, and his wife Mary, born 6 January 1911_.

He blinked. It was incredible to think this had been written when his great-grandmother was just a tiny baby, a few weeks old. And Thomas Evans, a farmer, and his wife Mary. He hadn't known about them. He felt elation tingling through him. “This is bloody fantastic.” He ran his finger gently across the line of ink, then looked up at Malfoy, who was regarding him with an intent look. “Thank you, Malfoy.”

Malfoy shrugged. “It's nothing.”

Harry frowned. “No, it's really... Thank you. Any sort of connection, like this... it's … Well. I suppose it's hard to explain to someone who's always had their family around them.”

Malfoy's face went peculiarly blank, and Harry recalled, too late, that Malfoy hadn't lived with his family for over five years.

“I mean, I don't know whether you've seen them lately. But — You grew up with them. You always knew who you were.”

“Indeed.” Malfoy's voice was carefully expressionless. _Shit._

“I'm sorry.”

“There's nothing to be sorry about.” Malfoy turned back to the book. “Have you finished with this?”

Harry nodded and began to lift the thick cover and draw the book closed.

“Let me,” said Malfoy, reaching for it at the same time. Their fingers brushed together, and they both fumbled over the book until Harry pulled his hand away.

“Sorry.”

“Stop apologising.” Malfoy looked just a tiny bit ruffled. Harry thought of the less-than-composed Malfoy of the previous evening. Was that under the surface, all the time? He had a warped desire to needle Malfoy, to draw out the true emotions lurking under the surface. The aggression and the anger were endlessly more satisfying than the calm facade of Deacon Malfoy.

He realised Malfoy was staring at him again. There was something stormy about his eyes. “When are you leaving?”

Harry wrinkled his nose, feeling offended. “Well, I can leave now, if I'm bothering you.”

A line formed between Malfoy's eyebrows. “No. I was just wondering. If you've time, I thought you'd like to see the font.”

Harry hesitated, not remembering what the word meant until Malfoy gestured to the large stone bowl on its pedestal just by the entrance.

“Your great-grandmother would have been baptised right here.”

Harry went over to it, taking in the rough carvings on the chalky-looking stone. Malfoy came up the steps beside him and leaned past Harry to remove the domed metal cover that rested on top. “There. The font dates from the fifteenth century. I can't imagine how many babies have screamed their way through a baptism in there.”

Harry pictured a squalling, wrinkly baby with a sprinkling of red hair, her friends and family crowding around to be part of the event, and grinned.

Malfoy was standing close behind him as Harry leaned forward. “Touch it, Potter. Feel how smooth it is. Centuries old.”

Harry ran a finger over the interior of the basin. It was cool to the touch, and Harry let his hand linger over the smooth contour of the rim. “Is it always kept filled?”

“Of course. It's holy water. They believe baptism removes the taint of original sin from the infant.”

Harry turned. “ _They_ believe?”

Malfoy lowered his eyes. “I mean _we_.”

“Original sin? What is that?”

“Surely you know. From the Garden of Eden.”

“Adam and Eve?”

“Yes.” Malfoy was still standing so near, both of them on the narrow step leading up to the font. “Adam was tempted by Eve. Tempted by knowledge. By sensual pleasures.” Malfoy was speaking quietly, as if worried they might be overheard.

Harry could smell the incense that always clung to Malfoy's hair. His legs were unsteady, and he leant against the font, gazing into the water. He could see himself reflected there and the dark silhouette of Malfoy at his shoulder.

“They were created in a state of holy grace,” Malfoy went on. “But Adam was also human. He succumbed to temptation.”

“The apple,” Harry said.

“Yes.” Malfoy's breath washed against his skin for a moment. “Adam wanted to taste the forbidden fruit. He wanted it... so much more than he cared for God's commandments.”

Harry's throat was tight, his heart thumping an insistent tattoo against his ribs. “Sounds natural to me.”

“He was punished for it.” There was an edge to the words. “They were cast out from their home. And humanity has suffered for it ever since.”

“So, this water...” Harry gestured. “It cancels out the sin?”

Malfoy leaned further forward and let his fingertips dip into the water. His body was almost pressing up against Harry's, the heat under the robes tangible as his chest brushed against Harry's arm. “Baptismal water washes free from sin.” He let his fingers swirl gently around the water, then made the sign of the cross, touching his own forehead, chest and shoulders.

Harry stared. Malfoy looked sort of rapt, as if transported by the touch of the water and his own hand. His eyes closed, and then he gazed at Harry from lowered lids.

“They sometimes baptise adults, too, in some communities – not in the font, but in the river. Complete immersion.” A smile pulled at Malfoy's mouth. “Would you like that, Potter? To be made pure again? To be forgiven for all of those dirty thoughts you have?”

Harry swallowed hard. He didn't know why he was just standing here, letting Malfoy say these things. But he couldn't seem to move away from him, nor to take his eyes from the compelling expression on Malfoy's face.

“Imagine it. Walking into the water, naked but for a robe, the fabric clinging around you. The priest pushing you down, and you submitting to it, going under. The water rushing to fill your nose and mouth. Struggling to breathe. The desperation of it. Your only thought how to repent for your sins. For your shameful desires.” But Malfoy didn't sound like he was thinking of repentance. “In the old days, they used to go naked into the water. Would you like that better, perhaps? Would you like to be stripped, to have the wet clothes peeled off your body and be washed clean of all your sins?”

A tremor ran right through Harry's body. He was too hot, much too hot, and Malfoy was much too near, his body too close to Harry's body, his mouth too close to Harry's mouth. “Why do you keep saying these things to me?”

“You said you wanted me to help you find your way.” Malfoy's face seemed pitiless to Harry. Did he know how he was making Harry feel? If he did, did he care? “I'm giving you spiritual instruction.” He dipped his fingers into the font again and held them up in front of Harry's face. “Shall I?”

For one mad moment Harry thought he was going to place his wet fingers in Harry's mouth, but then he touched Harry's forehead lightly. “In the name of the Father...” He brought his fingers down and let them rest against Harry's chest.

Harry flushed at the thought of Malfoy feeling his heart thudding like that through the thin t-shirt he was wearing, but there was nothing he could do about any of it.

“... and of the son,” Malfoy continued. His pupils were wide and inky. He touched Harry's shoulders, one, two. When they moved away, Harry could still feel the pressure of his fingers. “... and of the holy spirit.”

He was hardly speaking aloud, just mouthing the words, his lips softened, pushing forwards. “Imagine... just imagine... doing anything you wanted, any desire of your filthy little heart, and then being forgiven for it."

Harry felt a great surge rush through him, something between fury and want. He lunged forwards to meet Malfoy's teasing mouth and found it hot and surprisingly pliant against his own. Malfoy's lips were soft, and they opened for Harry's tongue without question, as if this had been the only logical conclusion all along. Harry kissed him with a deep hunger, relishing the dark, sweet flavour of his mouth. He closed his eyes, but then opened them again so he could see Malfoy's face, the surprise and – yes – the pleasure. Harry needed to feel all of him, needed to have the length of Malfoy's body pressed up against his own, and he walked him clumsily down the steps of the font, carried on until he had him pinned against the wall, and then Harry really began to make a proper job of it.

He had sometimes wondered what it would be like, kissing a man, and whether he would be any good at it. It would seem that he was. Or maybe he was just good at kissing Malfoy. Malfoy closed his own eyes and moaned, a frank sound of delight, and Harry thought that he had never really known what it was to be turned on until now. Malfoy's breath came faster into Harry's mouth, his head tilting to take Harry deeper until their tongues slid against one another, wicked and sublime. To kiss Malfoy was to sink into a hot, thrumming pool of bliss, and Harry intended to keep doing this pretty much forever.

If you had told Harry a week ago that he would be kissing Draco Malfoy up against the wall in a Muggle church, he wouldn't just have laughed, he would have roared. Yet now it was happening, there was absolutely nothing funny about any of it. The way Malfoy's mouth felt... the way _Harry_ felt... this was serious. Deadly serious.

Harry rolled his hips against Malfoy's skinny pelvis and gasped at the shudders of sensation twisting through him. Could he really feel what he thought he could feel under Malfoy's robes? He couldn't be sure. One of Malfoy's hands went up to cup Harry's head, the other pressed flat against the wall as he tilted his hips towards Harry, and then he _was_ sure. Malfoy was hard, and the knowledge took Harry's breath away.

His fingers scrambled frantically at Malfoy's robes. He had never wanted anything more in his whole life than to touch Malfoy, to know what it was like to have the heat and solidity of Malfoy's erection in his hand. It seemed like there were buttons everywhere, and Harry tried to open the damned robes and failed, kissed him harder, roughly, even, driven by frustration and need, and then gave up and simply pressed the palm of his hand against Malfoy's groin to feel the solid length of his cock through the fabric. Malfoy made a noise like steam escaping from a pressure cooker, and Harry reached round to grab at his arse and grind their cocks together, half out of his mind with want and the necessity to feed this yearning heat building deep inside him.

Malfoy's mouth was madness and perfection, Malfoy's arse was what Harry's hands had been made for, Malfoy's whole body was created for Harry's pleasure and he had to – he _had_ to – get into those robes, or go mad in the process. Then the handle of the thick oak door rattled loudly, and Malfoy pushed Harry away by his shoulders with such force that he stumbled backwards and fell into a sitting position on the steps of the font.

Two women came in, but it was a while before Harry could take in anything else about them. He sat there, half-winded, with a great clenching tension of disappointment and a frenzied sort of hunger in his stomach. Malfoy had walked away to the table where the parish record book still lay and was moving piled-up hymn books into different, random piles on the other end of the table. Harry wanted to moan with thwarted desire and confusion. What the fuck had just happened between him and Malfoy? And what would have happened if they hadn't been interrupted?

They were in church, for god's sake. And Malfoy was practically a priest. And even if he wasn't a priest, he was a git. Harry didn't even know if he _liked_ him. But nothing before in Harry's life had felt so fucking right.

The two women were in their fifties and wore the cardigan and sensible skirt combination that Harry had noticed a lot around the village. One carried a trug full of flowers, and both were talking to Malfoy. Neither seemed at all put off by the fact that he kept his back to them, or by the fact that Harry was sitting there looking quite wrecked.

“... and then Geraldine said, well, we've got nothing better to do, we might as well nip over to St Thomas's now and get these arranged.”

“But on the way, we saw Mr Abbott, and, oh, dear, he's looking a lot worse, isn't he, Sylvia?”

Harry could see the back of Malfoy's neck glowing pinkly.

“He is, and I think you should really call round this afternoon if you have time, Deacon Malfoy. He says he doesn't want visitors, but we think... ”

Harry ran a hand over his face. What the bloody hell was he doing here? He'd only come for a break, and to see if he could find anything out about the Evanses. Staying to find out what Malfoy was up to had made sense at the time, but the last thing he needed was some kind of insane entanglement. With a man. He'd kissed a man. Oh, god. And surely priests had things like vows of chastity, and Harry had done _that_...

Malfoy was speaking at last, his voice sounding reasonably steady in between the rather fluttery interruptions from the pair of ladies. A lot steadier than Harry's would have been in the circumstances. “I'll call on him this evening. Yes, of course. How charming those flowers look. Yes, thank you, I'm quite well. I do apologise, but I must go now. Father Rose needs me. Yes, I'll see you both at Mass, no doubt. Good afternoon, then.”

He gathered up the record book and walked along the nave, quite his collected self again. When he reached the side door, he turned, once, and looked back at Harry, who was still slumped on the steps. Harry couldn't read his expression, and as Malfoy stepped through and disappeared from sight, he felt only a bruising sadness tugging deep in his chest.

 ~~

The cottage was quiet and still and profoundly irritating. Harry stared, infuriated, at the neatly-placed ornaments on the shelf, the bowl of polished pebbles next to a glass bird. He glared at the smoothly plump cushions of the armchairs. The lack of anything of interest anywhere in the place. The complete fucking lack of Malfoy.

The Floo chimed, and Harry spun around to see Hermione's head appear in the fireplace, her forehead creased with concern.

“Harry. I'm so glad you're here.”

“Let me guess: it's about Malfoy.”

“Yes.”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“But, Harry—”

“No, Hermione, I'm serious. I'm going to go and pack, and then I want to just forget this holiday ever happened.”

“Why, what's happened?” Hermione's eyes narrowed. Her face looked sharp with her hair pulled tightly back like that.

“Which bit of _I don't want to talk about it_ did you not understand?”

“Charming. I don't know what's biting your arse, but—”

He turned away. “I need to pack.”

“Harry, will you listen? When Malfoy disappeared, he was being investigated for murder.”

“You _what_?”

“You heard me. I can't get my hands on the right report. Even Jephcott wouldn't help me out with it. But the document is referenced in his file, the one I got a copy of. I kept tinkering with the wards, and then this morning I cracked it. His file refers to report 373-1145.” She paused meaningfully.

“And?” Harry asked.

“373! It's the code for a murder investigation.”

“How am I supposed to know that?”

“You did six months training with the Aurors, surely you—” She saw Harry's face and stopped. “OK. Well, anyway, you need to—”

“No.” Harry shook his head. There had to be a mistake.

“It's all true, Harry. I saw it with my own eyes. 373. An ongoing investigation at the time of his disappearance.”

“My god.”

“I know. Have you seen him since we last spoke?”

“Yes.” A wave of cold nausea was welling up in his throat.

“Well, obviously we don't know the details, but it doesn't look good, does it? Why would he disappear if he was innocent?”

 _Yeah, I've_ seen _him. I can still taste his mouth, for god's sake. I know what his cock feels like through his clothes._

“What are you thinking, Harry?”

“I don't think it was him.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don't think he's a murderer.”

Hermione looked pained. “Harry...”

“I just don't believe it, OK!”

She bit her lip. “Yes. I see. I think you should come home, anyway. We can discuss it much more easily when—.”

“No.”

“What?” She was looking infuriated now.

“I think I should stay.”

“Oh!”

Harry knew the way her lips were pressed together, very well, and it wasn't a good sign. “I can find out much more while I'm actually here.”

“It's not your job, for goodness' sake!”

“How do we know he did it? If we get the Aurors in, he hasn't a hope of a fair trial. Think about it.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“It makes perfect sense. I'm here already, and Malfoy's definitely beginning to trust me.” _Well, I don't know if he trusts me exactly, but he let me press him up against a wall and kiss him._

Harry allowed himself to remember how Malfoy had felt in his arms. How his mouth had met Harry's own, willingly, with what had felt like an appetite for more. Just thinking about it made Harry's head throb with the possibilities. _He didn't try to stop me at all. Not till those bloody women came in—_

“Harry, I'm not listening to this—”

“Well, good, because neither am I.” Harry shut the Floo abruptly and immediately felt guilty at the sight of Hermione's stricken face blurring away to nothing.

Damn it. Harry ran his hands through his hair. Maybe he should just go home.

What, and let Hermione tell the DMLE what had happened, and see Malfoy get locked up for murder? They'd leave him to rot in there.

 _Maybe he did it_ , a little voice said.

Maybe Harry could ask him. Maybe Harry could get him to speak about what had happened. Maybe Harry could get him alone and talk to him some more.

 _You mean, kiss him some more_ , said the little voice.

He couldn't work out which bothered him most – the suggestion that Malfoy had been involved in murder, or what Harry himself had done in the church. What he still wanted to do.

The Floo chimed, once, then again, but he kept it closed, and when it clamoured a third time he set a Silencio over it.

Everything was quiet and still again. Harry screwed up his face in disgust, then strode out of the cottage, slamming the door behind him.

 ~~

It was quiet on the beach, but the restless, constant movement of the sea reflected how he felt inside. Harry walked until his feet complained about the effort of walking on the uneven shingle, and then sat on a dryish bit of sand, staring at the tide coming in and the steady wash and pull of the waves.

He just didn't know what to think about what Hermione had uncovered. He thought of Malfoy, his wand digging into the soft flesh of someone's throat, his face ugly with menace. Of a lifeless body dropping to the ground, and Malfoy walking away, cold and uncaring. It wasn't that hard to imagine. Malfoy angry and dangerous, Malfoy brooding with an unpredictable violence lurking just beneath the surface. Harry thought of the way he felt around Malfoy – the physical experience of being close to him. As if something predatory lay beneath the face he showed the world.

But Harry also remembered a night long ago on the Astronomy Tower, a pale arm which shook almost too badly to hold up a wand. A face crumpled with indecision. Someone who had been schooled in murder, yet was clearly sickened at the very thought of it. Had Malfoy really changed so much since then? Perhaps his experiences during the war had hardened him. Harry simply didn't know.

He sat until it began to grow dark, and then walked back, cold, tired, and empty. He quietened his stomach with bread and paté, then took a hot shower, the water beating down on his skin, incessant and rousing. Bed seemed like a sanctuary, but when he lay naked between the sheets, all he could think of was the feel of Malfoy's mouth against his.

His fingers were cool as he stroked the eager length of his erection. Cool, just like Malfoy's. Harry grimaced at the hungry leap his cock gave at the mere thought of Malfoy's hands. They were smooth and strong and probably knew exactly how to touch Harry, how to make him come completely to pieces. Malfoy's mouth would be even better. Silky heat, stretched tight around Harry's cock, and Harry already knew precisely how clever Malfoy's tongue was.

Part of Harry felt disgusted at the amount of pre-come leaking from his slit, at the noises escaping from his own mouth, even as he imagined the heaven it would be to push between Malfoy's lips, again and again. He thought he might hate Malfoy for making him feel like this. For being such a git. Such a hot, fuckable git. Harry pictured Malfoy on his knees, taking Harry's cock right to the back of his throat and making helpless, hungry noises as he did it, and then Harry's hips were jerking as the feverish rush of his orgasm bubbled up from the base of his spine and spilled out into his fist.

 _Fucking Malfoy_. Spunk spattered over Harry's stomach and coated his fist and it felt good, so fucking good.

 ~~

In the morning, everything felt very bad. He woke, at an hour which seemed much too early, to hear Cleo, Hermione's owl, her beak tapping light and insistent at the window.

_Harry,_

_If you don't reply to this or Floo me within 24 hours then I'm calling in the Aurors._

_Hermione_

Harry directed a bleary glare at Cleo's brown, feathered face. She hooted with disdain and turned away. He fumbled in his luggage for a quill, then wrote on the back of the parchment, trying to make it legible.

_This is me replying. Don't contact the Aurors yet._

_Just trust me, OK?_

_Harry_

It was a completely unreasonable request, and Harry knew it. He didn't even trust himself.

What's more, he didn't have a shred of a plan. Instead, he followed his instincts, which were to walk to the church. He checked his watch as he headed up the gravel path, forgetting to spare a glance for Lillian. It was about the same time he had found Malfoy there yesterday. Perhaps he would be alone again. Perhaps, when Harry pushed open the door, Malfoy would stop what he was doing and walk quickly to meet him. Perhaps he would lock gazes with Harry in that old challenging way, waiting for Harry to make the first move. Or perhaps he would step into Harry's space, lift those cool, pale hands and cup Harry's jaw as he—

The old door swung open, and Harry froze in the doorway. The church was … not full, but half-full, the pews populated with parishioners in twos and threes. The organ was playing something soothing and dignified. Harry's instant reaction was to turn and leave, but a tiny, stooped woman pressed a hymn book into his hand with fingers that were papery and crooked.

“Have a hymnal.” Her voice was wavery but cheerful.

“Oh. Thank you, but—”

She beamed at him. “You're new.”

“Yes.”

“Sit anywhere you like.”

“OK, but—”

“Go on.” She raised one hand, still beaming. “Anywhere you like.”

Harry walked helplessly towards the pews and sat down near the back. He would just sit for a minute, and then slip away when the hymnal woman was busy with someone else. He kept his eyes fixed on the spot from which Malfoy had appeared during the previous Mass, though. Parishioners sat down around him, and a convenient moment to leave never quite came. He may as well just stay and catch a glimpse of Malfoy, he thought. When the congregation stood, he stood as well, and grasped his hymnal as the rest of them did, although he had little idea what words were being sung or what page they were meant to be on.

He was so focused on the space before the altar that it was completely unexpected when the procession began from the back of the church, accompanied by the smell of incense, sultry and unmistakable, curling into Harry's nostrils. He had to close his eyes for a moment at the associations it brought. A mouth close to his skin, so close, yet not close enough, and then, the irresistible urge to close that gap, to crush that sweet-scented skin against his mouth, to feel the sharpness of that jaw against his lips. Fragrant smoke surrounded the men as they walked, slow and measured, up the aisle. The incense-bearer, dispersing perfume with every swing. The cross-bearer and two young men carrying enormous candles. More young men, walking two by two, and then older men, their broad bellies pushing out against their fitted robes. All wore variations of the white and gold vestments Harry had seen earlier in the week. Their steps were so _slow_ ; he turned round, impatient.

And, oh, god, there he was. There was Malfoy, every inch the Deacon. Glorious and golden, the white robes falling beautifully from his shoulders, his posture so fucking perfect that he made the others look cloddish and useless. How could anyone possibly suspect him of murder? It was unthinkable. His hands were clasped in front of him, his face like marble, the curve of his lips profound and paralysing. His gaze was lowered modestly, but as he approached the pew where Harry stood, his eyes swept across Harry with such sudden heat, a look which seemed to hold such promise that Harry found his knees wanting to fold and take him down. It only lasted a moment before Malfoy resumed his expression of piety and Harry was left wondering whether he had imagined the whole thing.

He stared at Malfoy's back as he processed towards the altar with the priest following, as if his eyes could burn a hole in the vestments. God, he resented the way they hid the lines of Malfoy's body. He longed to rid him of the frustrating layers of fabric, to lift and part and peel away until Malfoy's true shape was exposed at last. The trousers and shirt had hinted at it, but Harry wanted to know it as well as he knew his own body. He wanted access to every sweep of muscle, every prominence of bone. He wanted to learn the smell of Malfoy's skin, to tear away the dog collar so his tongue could trace a path from the hollow of Malfoy's neck, across his collarbones and down over his nipples. He could still taste the spice of Malfoy's mouth, still feel the catch of his breath as Harry dared to cup the undeniable heft of his cock.

But this Malfoy, this bloody vision in gold and white processing towards the altar, was untouchable. There could be no thought of kissing him, of laying a finger on him. Everything about him proclaimed his unattainable status; he was so far out of Harry's reach that he might as well be on the moon, no matter how much Harry hungered for him.

Malfoy reached the altar and bowed low, his body bending elegantly until his lips touched the cloth resting on the altar. Malfoy kissed it – deliberately, and reverently, and when he straightened up again his face had changed and was glowing from within. Harry stifled a noise of pain, his chest clenching with bitter frustration. He was never going to be able to have Malfoy in the way he wanted, was he? Never. Malfoy was already promised to another man. Well – worse still – a god. His body was consecrated to the church. Even his lips weren't free to kiss who he chose. Yet he had kissed Harry.

Malfoy reached the altar and turned to assist the priest, and Harry was hard, so fucking hard, that he wanted to splay his fingers across his erection and thrust up against the friction of his own palm, standing right there in church. He felt horribly coarse and dirty, leering at Malfoy while he was carrying out his duties. What sort of a man got off on thoughts of the clergy, for god's sake? What sort of a person felt their breath quicken at the thought of what lay under the forbidding robes? Harry bent over a little in embarrassment, adjusting his jacket and hoping no-one could see the way his jeans were straining over the bulge of his cock. But he could not keep his eyes from Malfoy.

The proceedings at the altar made little sense to Harry. Malfoy passed the incense to the priest, who swung it over the altar and then gave it back. Malfoy swung the incense around the body of the priest himself, his jaw tight with concentration, the incense moving in graceful arcs as he manipulated it with practised motions. His vestments fell back to reveal his wrists and Harry fancied he could see the pale hairs catching in the light which streamed in through the glass. He raised his other arm towards the ornate burner which held the incense, and from this angle, Harry would have sworn he could see the tip of a wand there. He felt a dim flicker of suspicion, and sat upright to try to get a better view. It was just tucked inside the sleeve of whatever Malfoy was wearing under his robe, and Malfoy's lips were even moving as if in incantation. Then Malfoy's eyes flicked up towards his, and his arm came down amidst furls of aromatic smoke and hid the wand – if wand it was – from sight again.

The rites of Mass continued, but to Harry, it passed in a meaningless blur. He stood, sat, stood again, following in a daze what those around him did, the whole ritual seen dimly through a haze of arousal. Harry could only focus on Malfoy's hands as he passed this or that, on Malfoy's lips forming incomprehensible phrases of Latin, on the flowing shapes of his robes as he moved to assist the priest.

And all the while Harry was wrestling with a horrid suspicion. That the reason he didn't believe Malfoy capable of murder was because he didn't _want_ to believe it. Because it was hard enough to accept how he felt about Malfoy, without thinking―

Malfoy began to read from an enormous book, his voice clear and compelling. The words flowed around Harry, the cadences of Malfoy's voice seeming to brush across his skin and raise goosebumps there. He wanted to sit there forever, letting the poetry of Malfoy's voice wash over him until he was dizzy with it, but all too soon it was finished and Malfoy bowed his head to lay another kiss on the book.

An impotent fury rose up in Harry's throat at the sight of Malfoy's perfect lips gracing the lifeless pages of the book. The accusation of murder was preposterous with Malfoy in front of him, shining with fervour, so flawless Harry couldn't pull his eyes from him. But why else had Malfoy shut himself away like this and shrouded himself in the robes of the clergy? He was young and healthy and alive, and it seemed perverse to Harry – sick, even – that he was cloistered like this, granting his kisses only to dry paper and limp cloth instead of warm skin that would tremble with pleasure at his touch.

The congregation were moving forward in small groups, and Harry found himself swept along as those in his pew were ushered forward by a serious young man. He realised, too late, that Malfoy and the priest were preparing the wine and the wafers for the ritual of Holy Communion and that he was in the queue to receive it. Harry wasn't certain, but he felt pretty sure it would be wrong for an unbeliever to take Communion. And if he had ever been in doubt, he knew now that he did not worship this god that Malfoy had dedicated himself to. If God existed at all, Harry hated him. He had taken the Malfoy of flesh and blood and desire and locked him away, transformed him into this untouchable golden creature whom Harry could never have.

He turned to go, but there were people behind him, and the serious young man just waved him forward. Malfoy stepped forward with the chalice of wine and his eyes fixed on Harry as he stood there in a muddle of indecision. Malfoy's mouth seemed to twitch in amusement, and Harry raged inwardly at him. Very well, then. What would Malfoy do if Harry did step forward with the others? If he knelt down before him? The priest was moving from person to person, placing a wafer in each mouth and speaking too quietly for Harry to hear. Malfoy followed and offered the wine, tilting the cup gently towards each face, his expression once again sombre and intent. There were three people in front of Harry. Then there were two. Now one. Malfoy tipped the cup delicately, but he was watching Harry, and his eyes shone out a challenge.

It was Harry's turn. He stepped forwards on unsteady feet and knelt at the altar. He realised he was still clutching the hymnal, his fingers tight around the smooth leather of its cover. He could not look up, but the robes of the priest, Father Rose, swayed into view in front of him. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth as the others had done, but the priest merely touched his forehead lightly and moved on.

Harry looked up in surprise to see Malfoy before him, holding the chalice. The rest of his face gave little away, but his eyes burned with mocking laughter. All Harry could think of was how it felt to kneel before Malfoy. His erection was delighted about the situation, rubbing against the seam of his jeans, and the taunting look in Malfoy's eyes did nothing to change matters. In fact, his cock seemed to think that this was a highly desirable state for Harry to be in: kneeling, hard, furious and slightly humiliated. Malfoy gestured with the cup and Harry's mouth opened obediently. Malfoy eyes flared again with the heat that Harry had seen earlier, but instead of pressing the cup to his lip, he merely touched Harry's forehead as the priest had done.

His fingers lingered just for a moment. It was the merest brush of skin on skin but to Harry, it felt like the touch of a flame to a bundle of kindling.

“The blessing of Christ,” Malfoy said, his voice low and intimate, like a lover's promise. The incendiary mixture of the sacred and the profane made Harry want to whimper. The whole thing had taken only a few seconds, but it was enough to make Harry's erection rage in his jeans as Malfoy moved on and Harry stood up, awkwardly. As Malfoy offered the cup to the next person, his sleeve fell open and Harry again saw the narrow shape lurking beneath.

 _The tip of a wand. It_ was.

Merlin, Malfoy had a wand which he carried around with him. Why would he do that unless he was using it? Was Malfoy doing _magic_ during Mass? Harry thought of the vapours of the incense, his own light-headedness as Malfoy had read from the gospel. The way he never felt quite in control around Malfoy. The file that Hermione had found reference to. _Fuck._ It couldn't be. Could it?

Harry took a step back towards the altar, making Malfoy look up from the line of kneeling people. “I need to see you,” Harry mouthed.

Malfoy's brow furrowed in disapproval, but Harry stood his ground. He felt he would stand there all day if need be. Malfoy sighed, but gave the tiniest of nods, and then turned his attention firmly back to giving Communion, leaving Harry to stumble out into the churchyard feeling as though he was coming up to the surface after swimming in deep and treacherous waters.

 ~~

When he got back to the cottage, there was a note on the doorstep, in unfamiliar, looping handwriting, with one single word and no signature.

_Tonight._

 ~~

The note was long gone. Harry had _Incendioed_ it several hours ago, to ensure that he couldn't stare at it any longer. There were no answers to be had from it. But part of him wished he hadn't destroyed it. _Tonight._ What the fuck did it _mean_? When? And where, for god's sake? Even when Malfoy was being co-operative, he still had to be fucking infuriating.

Perhaps Malfoy meant that he would come to the cottage again. Perhaps he wanted Harry to meet him on the beach, where they had had what felt like their one and only honest conversation since Harry had arrived. Or perhaps Malfoy would send another note nearer the time. As the day drew on and six o'clock, seven o'clock passed with no word, Harry found that he did know where to go after all: the church. It was always going to be the bloody church.

Lillian's fiery tulips were drooping a little, but they perked up at a pre-occupied flick from Harry's wand, a crow giving a surprised caw from the yew branch above.

He was struck once more by how cool the church was the moment he stepped inside. Almost magically cool, Harry thought. Was Malfoy responsible for that as well?

He was there, by the font, adding water from a brass jug. He had changed from the white vestments and wore the long black cassock again, the sleeves more fitted around his arms and showing no hint of a wand. He looked up as Harry came in, but carried on pouring in a steady stream until the jug was empty, and then walked away from Harry.

“It's tonight,” Harry said, his tongue feeling thick and clumsy in his mouth.

“I'm still working,” Malfoy said, over his shoulder.

“This is about your work,” Harry told him.

“Why are you still here?”

“I like it here. I'm on holiday, remember?”

“When are you _going_ , Potter?”

“Since when have you been using magic during Mass?”

Malfoy wheeled around to look at him. “What?”

“I saw you. What were you doing?”

“When?”

“When you were near the altar. With the priest. You had your wand up your sleeve.”

“The incense was going out.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes. It's meant to burn all through Mass, but it goes out. It's a right pain.”

“That incense... What is it?”

“It's a mixture – mostly frankincense. The smoke symbolises the prayers of the faithful rising to heaven. But Potter, I have work to—”

“You put something in it.”

“What?”

“The stuff that was burning. You put something in there. Or used some spell or something.”

“What on earth—”

“And the wine – when you came to the cottage. When I wasn't looking, you must have—”

“You're deluded. What do you think I did to it?”

“I don't know. I felt— Well, you must have—” It was hard to say what he thought without feeling foolish, in the face of Malfoy's rather scathing expression.

“You felt _what_ , exactly?”

“Just weird, OK?” It came out louder than he intended. “And you admitted yourself that you've been using magic.”

Malfoy flicked his fingers, and a candle set on the altar leapt into flame.

Harry's eyebrows drew together. “I knew it.”

Malfoy flicked his fingers again, and another altar candle sprang to life. He turned to the back of the church where there were a lot of small candles arranged and did it again, and again, his arm movements more forceful, the little flames springing up around the church with increasing vigour.

Harry stood and watched, his fingers brushing against his own wand for reassurance.

Malfoy's face was almost ugly with a sneer plastered on it. “Of course I still do _magic_ , Potter. I'm a wizard. It's in the bones of me. Like looking at blokes' arses is in the bones of you. You can keep it down for a while, but it wells up inside of you and leaks out of the cracks.” He aimed for a large candle near the door, his arm drawing back and then propelling forwards in a long, sinuous movement.

“You think you can control it, but it will have its way in the end.” His arm drew back again, and then as he threw his magic forward in a perfect arc, a dozen candles in a chandelier dangling over their heads burst into flames all at once, and Harry had to resist the impulse to throw up an arm to protect himself.

Malfoy slid his wand from his sleeve and directed it at the electric lamps up in the roof trusses until they winked into darkness. The whole church was now lit by candlelight, eeriely intimate, shadows flickering on every wall.

“It was you.” Harry knew even as he spoke that it didn't quite add up, but there had to be some reason for the breathless feeling in his chest at Malfoy's display of power. Some _other_ reason. Not— “You're doing magic to make people do what you want. To make them feel...” He didn't even know what Malfoy was making him feel.

“I did something to the incense?” Malfoy's face was sharper somehow by candlelight, the planes of his face thrown starkly into brightness and shadow. “And the wine?”

Harry nodded. He stared at the wand in Malfoy's hand. It was not the hawthorn wand Harry had returned after the trials. This was a darker wood, and it had a finer point than his hawthorn one. Had Malfoy got a new wand to avoid being traced? Or perhaps it was because because his old one carried the taint of an Unforgivable.

“What about by the font?” Malfoy continued. “When we looked at the record book together? Had I put something in the _paper_? Merlin's sake, Potter, can't you even admit you're attracted to another man? It's not a spell. It's _you_. You practically came in your pants just from kissing me and fumbling about with—”

“Shut up!” said Harry. “Just shut up.” He wished he wasn't breathing so hard. “What about you? I bet your priest doesn't know you do magic, does he?”

Malfoy stared at him with dislike.

“You'd be thrown out, wouldn't you? If they knew what you were.”

“Ignorance and prejudice.” Malfoy glared. “My conscience is clear. I make my confession, I perform my penance—”

“You go to confession?”

“Yes.” Malfoy looked down his long nose at Harry.

“And... you're forgiven?”

“Of course. All sins are absolved.”

“But... what if you confess a very serious sin? Like... murder.” Malfoy's face looked pointier than ever as Harry watched carefully for a reaction. “Would that be forgiven?”

Malfoy's eyes flicked uneasily across Harry's face. “Are you speaking of a crime that you have committed?”

“What if I had? What would I do?”

Malfoy appeared to hesitate, then sounded rather pinch-mouthed. “If one wishes to confess, one goes to the confessional.”

“Show me.”

Malfoy just stared. In the candlelight he cast a long shadow across the altar, slanting and tapered, like a knife.

“I want you to show me,” Harry insisted.

Malfoy lifted his chin. “Very well.”

He led Harry to part of the church which ran crosswise to the nave. “The North Transept,” Malfoy said. The confessional turned out to be a tall wooden box, like a large cupboard with doors, each swathed with a curtain. Malfoy drew one of the heavy drapes back. “This is for the priest.”

Harry peered in. Inside it was dim, but he could see a chair and a grille on the wall.

“And this is for the penitent.” Malfoy pulled the other curtain aside and showed Harry the small space containing a kneeler.

“You have to kneel?”

“You have to kneel,” Malfoy agreed.

“What if I want to confess? Right now?” Harry asked.

Malfoy made a dismissive movement with his hand. “You're not confirmed into the church. You cannot make a confession.” He frowned. “And until I am a priest, I cannot hear it.”

“Since when did you ever follow the rules?” Harry asked.

Malfoy's face was curiously intent. “You wish to make a confession?”

Harry's pulse was quickening. He didn't know what he was doing, in this jumble of thoughts and impulses. He told himself that perhaps Malfoy would let something slip if they talked of sins, of repentance. But if he was honest, there was something compelling about the thought of making a confession himself. To Malfoy, at least. Like stripping himself bare. He wondered how Malfoy's face would look if Harry told him some of the things he had done during the War. Or, more recently, things he had thought about. How he would look if Harry told him what he had thought about last night. “Yes,” he said.

The candlelight flickered, golden, on Malfoy's face. “Very well.” There was something about the way he said it that almost made Harry afraid. “Step inside.” He held the curtain back for Harry as he stepped into the small space.

Harry's throat felt rough. Malfoy was watching him. “Don't you go in the other bit?” he asked.

“Kneel, Potter.” Malfoy's pupils were so large in the dim light.

Merlin. Harry tried to remember why this had seemed like a good idea. Malfoy just stood there, waiting. Harry slid down onto the wooden kneeler, while Malfoy stood, his face unreadable.

“Why do I have to kneel?”

“To show humility. When we confess, we are sorrowful and ashamed. Do you feel ashamed?”

Harry screwed his nose up. “Not particularly.” What he mostly felt was a shivery sense of anticipation, but he wasn't going to share that with Malfoy.

Malfoy tilted his head. “We can work on that. Are you comfortable?”

“Not really.”

“Are you ready?”

“Ready for what, exactly?”

For a moment Harry thought Malfoy would answer, but he merely took one more look at Harry, his face grave, and then let the curtain fall across the doorway, leaving Harry kneeling in darkness.

There was a pause, then a rustling through the grille and a light flickered on in Malfoy's section of the confessional. Harry could make out his shape as he sat down, but the grille obscured his expression.

There was a silence. The design of the confessional placed their faces so close together that Harry imagined he could hear Malfoy breathing. “What do I do?” he asked.

Malfoy replied in a whisper. “We speak quietly in the confessional. Everything that is said remains only between us.”

Harry swallowed, and lowered his voice. “OK. So do I just—”

“You begin by saying how long it has been since your last confession.”

“You know I've never done this before.”

“No. It's your very first time.”

Did Malfoy mean to sound suggestive? It was probably just the fact he was whispering. It made everything sound more intimate.

“I'll have to talk you through it," Malfoy continued. "Let's begin with something easy. Have you used God's name profanely in your speech?”

“God, yes. I mean—”

Something like a stifled snigger came from Malfoy's side.

“Surely everyone does that, though. I—”

“Have you broken a vow or promise?”

Harry considered this.

“You know you have, Potter. You promised to leave me alone. And I've lost track of the times you told me you were leaving.”

Harry tilted his chin up. “I'm on holiday. I can stay as long as I like.”

“The idea is to show penitence, Potter. Have you honoured Sundays by attending Mass?”

“Yes,” said Harry. “Well, today I did, anyway.”

“Were you inattentive at Mass? Did you leave early? I think we can answer yes to both of those, can't we? Have you neglected prayer? Again, yes.”

“Who exactly is making the confession here?” Harry glared at the grille. He could see Malfoy inclining his head.

“My apologies. Have you abused drugs or alcohol?”

“Not _abused_ ,” Harry stated.

“Have you abused drugs or alcohol? Have you, for example, allowed yourself to become drunk?” Malfoy repeated.

“Merlin. Yes. But you did, too—”

“This is not _my_ confession. Have you been impatient or angry?”

“That's a _sin_?”

Malfoy sounded amused. “I'll take that as a yes. Have you been envious or proud?”

“Not especially.”

“Have you always told the truth?”

Harry swallowed. He had been far from truthful with Malfoy, he supposed. And with Hermione, for that matter. “No.”

“Have you kept the secrets and confidences of others?”

He hadn't kept Malfoy's confidence. Dammit, why did this feel so serious? It was just Malfoy, on the other side of the grille, just another human being, imperfect like him. These were all natural things that people did – they swore, they got angry, they lied sometimes... but he wouldn't lie now.

“No.”

“Have you been chaste in thought and word?”

Oh, _hell_. “What does that mean?” asked Harry, stalling.

“Have you had impure thoughts?”

He didn't have to answer if he didn't want to. Malfoy's face was so close to his. He could see his skin through the pattern of the grille.

“Potter.” Malfoy's voice was quietly insistent. “Have you had impure thoughts?”

“Yes.” Thank god Malfoy couldn't see him.

“Have you allowed yourself to have sexual thoughts about men?”

Harry's face was growing warmer. “You know I have.”

“Have you sought sexual pleasure with someone to whom you are not married?”

Harry remembered the feel of Malfoy's body pressed up against the wall. The lean strength of him. “Yes.”

The whisper grew quieter. “Have you given yourself sexual gratification?”

His cheeks were burning. Fucking Malfoy. But he wouldn't give him the satisfaction of lying. “Yes.” It occurred to Harry how convenient it was for Malfoy that they needed to speak quietly. Even if someone came in to the church, they wouldn't be overheard.

There was a pause, and then a shifting from the other side of the grille. “Have you looked at impure images?”

Harry could feel a muscle jumping near his eye. “Not recently.”

“Have you fantasised about others?”

“Yes.” His palms were damp. It was getting uncomfortable in there; it was oppressive, with the heavy curtains and no ventilation. He placed his face closer to the grille, as if he might find some fresh air filtering through.

He could definitely hear Malfoy's breath now. It was shallow, but fast. “Have you fantasised about a person you know?”

“Yes.”

“A man?”

“Yes.” Damn and blast Malfoy. He was hard again, his cock pushing brazenly against his jeans, uncomfortably squashed by the unforgiving material.

“Did you touch yourself, Potter? While you were thinking about this man that you know?”

Harry's throat was so dry he could hardly hear his own answer. His mouth was almost touching the grille. “Yes.”

He could hear the sound of Malfoy swallowing. “Did you reach orgasm?”

“Yes.”

Malfoy's voice was so quiet against his ear, almost silky. “Did you enjoy it, Potter?”

“Yes.” The word came out in a sort of choking sound.

Malfoy made a noise almost like a sigh. “Do you wish you could touch yourself _right now_?”

Harry's cock betrayed him with a slippery pulse of pre-come as a sudden flare of heat fired in his belly. Hell, what was Malfoy playing at? This was bloody perverse.

“Do you?”

“Fuck you, Malfoy.”

“Potter. Answer the question.”

“Yes. Yes, I bloody do.”

“Then do it.”

Christ. “Are you mad?”

“ _Do it_ , Potter. Touch yourself.”

Malfoy's voice was low but he spoke with such authority. It was far too easy to imagine following his orders. Harry thought he could see his lips moving through the grille. “Do it, now.”

His cock was so hard, it was painful. It would be so simple to just unzip his jeans and relieve some of the pressure.

“I know that you want to.”

 _Fuck._ Harry's fingers reached for his flies. To pop the button was the work of a moment and then the zip slid down as easy as pie. The sound was loud and unmistakable. He heard Malfoy's breath catch in his throat.

“That's it. Now... touch yourself.”

There was just the merest covering of cotton between Harry's fingers and his cock. He shifted on the kneeler, trying to give his erection more room without actually touching it.

Malfoy's voice slid into his ear like syrup. “Just thinking about doing it is a sin, Potter. You might as well do it and be damned.”

Harry bit his lip. Malfoy's suggestions were almost hypnotic, and the whole thing was so warped, it hardly seemed to make any difference whether or not he actually.... He stroked his fingers over the bulge of his cock and let out a groan.

There was more rustling from Malfoy's side. Merlin, was Malfoy—? Harry gasped as his own fingers trailed over the sensitive ridge of his crown, where the cotton of his pants was sticky and damp. He heard Malfoy make a small sound, but the grille obscured everything so frustratingly.

“Malfoy...”

“Touch yourself the way you do when you're alone.” Malfoy's whisper had a hoarseness to it now.

Harry gave up resisting. He tugged his jeans open and pulled the fabric of his pants down so that his cock sprang free. God, he was so hard.

“How does it feel?” Malfoy asked.

Harry made a circle with his fist and pushed into it with a whimper. “Fuck...”

“Your filthy mouth, Potter...” There was more movement from the other side of the grille.

Harry turned sideways a little so that he could rest his ear close to the cool metal separating him from Malfoy. He thought he could make out the sound of fabric brushing over fabric. Of skin sliding over skin.

“Let me hear you,” Malfoy whispered. “Let me hear how you sound when you touch yourself.”

Harry used his foreskin to smear pre-come over the head of his cock, then let out a blatant moan as he rubbed his thumb deliberately over the ridge. It was so humid in the confessional, so dark and quiet. All his senses were heightened: the scent of his own arousal mixing with the ubiquitous incense; the sound of Malfoy's breath, hot and close to his ear; the touch of his palm stroking along his shaft making him want to cry out with pleasure.

“I like you on your knees for me, Potter,” Malfoy breathed, and Harry's cock jerked in his fist.

“God, Malfoy,” Harry moaned, and leant his forehead against the grille.

“Do you like it? Do you like letting yourself do these shameful things? Down on your knees, thinking about other men?”

Harry tried to hold back, tried to stop the urgent motions of his hand, but something in Malfoy's words had already tipped him over the edge. His mouth fell slack as he felt the beginnings of release rushing along his spine. He just had time to spread his knees and arch his back, and then the first wave hit him. By god, it was intense. Harry flung up one arm against the partition for support, his body jerking again and again as he came in aching, breathless bursts, his balls tightening with the delicious unstoppable fury of his orgasm.

As the last wave faded, his cock twitched a final drop of come onto the floor. He felt utterly sated, but even as the afterglow settled over him, he felt prickles of uneasiness. Merlin. There was spunk all over the bloody place. Oh, hell. What had he done? This was madness. His breath was still coming fast, but the euphoria was falling away to be replaced by a shaky, slightly appalled feeling. He groped for his wand and cleaned himself, the wall, the kneeler and the floor. He heard Malfoy moving on the other side of the grille and felt anger well up from his gut.

“Malfoy.” It sounded like a growl.

Malfoy cleared his throat before he spoke. “Potter.”

“What the fuck did you do that for?”

“Me? I think you'll find it was you who did it.”

“I would never have—” Harry pushed away from the kneeler to sit slumped on the floor. “Shit. If they knew, you'd be thrown out.”

Malfoy laughed, but his voice sounded slightly shaky when he spoke. “What do you think Memory Charms are for?”

“Hell!” Harry banged on the partition wall in frustration. “Did you plan this?”

“Of course I bloody didn't!"

“Then why—” Harry couldn't even finish the sentence. There were no words for what had just happened.

He could still hear Malfoy breathing from the other side of the box. Then he saw a swirl of black as Malfoy stood, about to leave.

“No. Don't go.”

“Why not?”

“You can't just— Stay and talk to me.”

“What is there to say?”

“How about explaining why the fuck you're such a hypocrite? How can you pretend to be all proper and religious, and then do something like that?”

Malfoy's words came out in an angry rush. “Because I'm fucking human, like the rest of you!”

“Like the rest of us? Most people don't do stuff like that!”

“Most people aren't forced to live like I do. Christ, Potter. I'm twenty-five. Do you not think I sometimes have needs... like anyone else?”

Harry stood and spoke towards the grille again. He could see Malfoy's face palely gleaming in the muted light. “Nobody's forcing you... You chose this! Why did you disappear and shut yourself away like this in the first place?”

“I didn't know— You have no idea what it's like, Potter.” He hissed the words, low and fierce, into the holes of the grille. “No. Idea.”

“You lied to me.” Harry swallowed at the thought of this betrayal. Somehow it stung more than anything.

“I would have said anything to get you to go away and leave me in peace!” Malfoy's voice was strained. “Why the hell didn't you? Surely even you can see that we need to stay away from each other?”

“You fooled me all along.” The words came out flat, but at the end, Harry's voice broke. It was ridiculous how much it seemed to matter. “You told me you believed.”

Malfoy didn't answer.

“I thought... I really thought you'd changed,” Harry continued. “But you're just the same as ever. I should have known.” Disgust was building in him, making him want to lash out. Disgust at Malfoy's deceit, but most of all, disgust for how Harry had got sucked in by his own desires. Disgust for how much part of him still wanted Malfoy. Despite what he might be.

“You don't know anything about me, Potter. Why I do anything.”

“If that's true, it's because you keep yourself locked away inside this bloody place, and everything you say is a lie.”

“It wouldn't occur to you that perhaps I was telling you what I wanted to hear myself?” Malfoy spat the words through the grille. “How could I live like this if I didn't at least want it to be true?”

“That makes no sense.”

“You're so bloody perfect, of course. You always believe in what's right.” Malfoy sank down onto the chair again, his voice flat and cold.

Harry strained to hear the next words. Malfoy's voice had dropped to a furious whisper. “Maybe I wanted to be that person. Maybe I thought I did still believe.”

“You mean, you used to? Back when you started?”

A long, uneven breath sighed from Malfoy's mouth. “I... think so.”

“How can you not know?” Frustration made the words harsh.

“For fuck's sake, why do you keep on at me?” Malfoy's voice rose higher. “Why would you even care?”

Harry leaned against the wooden partition. “I do care. I... I just do.”

“You just poke and poke, and stir things about, and you have no idea, absolutely none—

“Malfoy. I'm sorry. I just want to know, OK? I just... Tell me. Please.”

Malfoy sighed, a tired, sorrowful sound. When he spoke again all the fight had gone out of his voice. “It's not as simple as you make it out to be, for god's sake.”

“Well, what is it like, then?”

"You'd never understand."

"Try me."

There was a long pause and then Malfoy started to speak, hesitantly at first. “I used to find... peace. Blessed peace, in the rituals of the church. I still do. One feels... transported. Completely transfigured, even. It's the closest thing to magic I've found in the Muggle world.”

Harry nodded. “I think I felt it. Just a little bit. And I could see it... on your face.”

“But...” Malfoy sighed again. “I don't think it's because God is real.” The tone of regret in his voice made Harry's heart twist, but Harry could also feel hope stirring, irrepressible.

“No?”

“It's more like... losing yourself in service to something. Everything about the church is designed to make you feel awed. Insignificant. There's a... stillness. Inside. That I've never found anywhere else. And the rites of Christianity. Merlin, Potter, can you imagine the power of absolution, of being forgiven?” His voice sounded amazed. “The feeling of wholeness, of being washed clean.”

There was a long silence and Harry held his breath, waiting.

“You wouldn't bloody understand, anyway,” Malfoy said bitterly.

Harry frowned at the dismissal. “Stop saying that. It's not fair.”

“Oh yes? And what would the Saviour know about seeking forgiveness?”

“I told you I was looking for something. That peaceful feeling – I can understand chasing after it. It always feels like nothing seems to fit quite right for me. Like my shoes are on the wrong bloody feet or something.”

Malfoy huffed a soft laugh. “And of course that has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that you've been living in total denial. And don't say, _About what?_ About being as gay as a troupe of Leprechauns dancing a jig.”

Harry bristled with anger. “What about you? Getting a bloke to wank off in the confessional while you listen isn't exactly a triumph of heterosexuality.”

Malfoy's voice was chilly and hostile. “You don't need to tell me that, Potter. Five years of introspection has left me with no doubts about myself.”

“Then why do you stay here?” Harry wasn't sure if he wanted to know.

He could see Malfoy shake his head. “Everything is so simple in the brain of Harry Potter.”

“You're the one simplifying everything. Deciding I'm gay. Maybe it's just … a phase. Maybe I'm bisexual.”

Malfoy tilted his head to look up at Harry through the grille. “Do you like women? The way you like me?”

“I don't like anyone the way I like you.” The words came out before Harry had thought about them, but there seemed nothing to lose in admitting it.

Malfoy fell completely silent, and Harry peered through the grille but could not make out the exact expression on his face. There was probably something about talking like this, Harry thought – secluded and intimate, but also hidden from one another – that brought out these confidences. But he longed for the openness of talking face-to-face instead.

“Malfoy... Why don't we go somewhere else? Come to the cottage.”

“I can't do that.”

“Well... the beach, then. We could walk. Talk some more.”

“Just go.”

Harry flinched back at the violence behind the words. “What?”

“Just – piss off.”

Harry stepped through the curtain screening his side and then yanked at the one concealing where Malfoy sat. He was sitting very stiff and upright, two spots of colour on his pale face.

“I'm telling you to go, Potter.”

Harry felt frustration roiling inside him. Malfoy was the most infuriating, the most— “How long are you going to live like this? Are you just going to pretend this never happened, and move on?”

“Something like that.”

“And what about the next time you have _needs_?” A thought occurred to Harry, and his insides lurched in horror. “Have you done this before?”

Malfoy turned a cold stare on Harry. “You really think so little of me, don't you? What if I have?”

“Damn it, Malfoy! Have you?”

“Why does that interest you so much? Are you _jealous_?”

“No.” It sounded too vehement to be convincing.

“I think you are. I think you want to be my dirty little secret. Just you. You'd love that, wouldn't you?”

Harry's face twisted with dislike. “You're warped, Malfoy.” But his prick gave a traitorous twitch.

“It's not just me who's warped. I bet you've dreamed of it. Kneeling there at Mass this morning with your lips parted, waiting for me.”

“Malfoy, don't—”

“Thinking about me having you, lifting my robes up to take you right there.”

“Hell.” Harry shook his head. “Maybe I want you, but not like that.” He made the words as convincing as he could, but it was difficult, when his bloody cock leapt at the mere suggestion.

“Yes, just like that. On the altar, Potter. In front of everyone. Think about it.” Malfoy's face was alive with bitterness. “Think how good it would feel. I bet you're hard again, right now, just from the sound of my voice. Just from my words, telling you what you already know."

Harry choked back a whimper.

"I did tell you to go." Malfoy spat the words out. "This is what you get if you stay."

“Malfoy. You can't stay here, thinking about that stuff all the time. Why don't you just leave? Come back home.”

“Don't you get it? I can't.”

“Why not?”

“I'm committed to this now. I can't go back.”

“Merlin!” Harry thumped on the hard wood of the box and winced at the pain jarring along his arm. When Malfoy talked about his faith, about his search for peace, Harry's gut told him that he was telling the truth. But this refusal made no fucking sense, unless Malfoy _had_ done something unspeakable, something he was running away from— “I can't listen to any more of this. You can stay here and torture yourself for the rest of your life if you want to.”

“Go, then.” Malfoy looked at him with what looked like fury. “I don't want to see you again.”

“That's fine with me.” It was anything but fine. But he forced his feet to turn around and start moving towards the nave. This was it. He would leave tonight. He'd go home and pack. Except that he was probably too bloody het up to Apparate safely, and the last bus had already left Halesworth. Well, he'd just have to leave in the morning.

He thought he'd probably go mad and destroy the place if he had to go back and stare at the orderly, twee décor of the cottage again. Instead he stumped along the beach path with rage smouldering in the pit of his belly.

 _Fucking Malfoy. Fucking, fucking Malfoy._ He kicked angrily at a stone and sent it skittering over the shingle, bouncing and rolling until it tumbled to a halt. He wished he'd never come. Finding Lillian wasn't worth this snarled-up mess in his head, he thought, then felt guilty at his own disloyalty. He sat and stared at the water, the ceaseless momentum of it. Every pebble on the beach had once been tossed around in there while the sea and time had wrought their magic, transforming all that was jagged and rough to something smooth and steady.

He sat until it was getting dark and the moon cast silver paths over the waves. There was a wind blowing in from the sea, but it was a warm wind, and Harry felt uncomfortably hot; edgy and stifled. The beach was deserted, and a mad impulse had him kicking off his shoes and socks. He was meant to be on holiday, and he hadn't swum, not once. He shrugged off his shirt and was just glancing around to make sure there were no dog-walkers, no flowery-skirted parishioners to horrify, when he saw the sleek outline of a robed figure standing, watching, silhouetted at the top of the beach.

His heart made a giddy leap despite himself. He straightened up, wishing he wasn't barefoot and shirtless, but he met Malfoy's gaze as levelly as he could and stood with his shoulders back, waiting as Malfoy picked his way over the stones.

“Malfoy,” he said.

“I wanted to speak to you. You weren't at the cottage.” Malfoy still looked angry, though whether with Harry, or himself, Harry couldn't tell.

“No.”

“I... shouldn't have said those things. And I shouldn't have told you to go.”

“You don't want me to?”

“No. I mean, yes. But...” His hand flew up, as if to touch Harry's chest, then stopped. His fingers hovered just next to Harry's skin, neither touching, nor pulling away. It made Harry want to yell with frustration. He wanted to knock Malfoy's hand away, and wrestle him down to the ground, and then—

“Hell, Potter.” Malfoy's face was a confused mess.

“Malfoy, I told you. I can't stand this pissing about." The words tumbled out. "I want you.” Harry's heart thumped at the way it felt to say it. “All right? I'm not going to pretend otherwise. But you can't do stuff and then tell me to forget all about it so you can go back to being a priest.”

Malfoy's eyes were slightly unfocused. “I just thought... maybe, if I could have this one thing. If I could have what I wanted... just once. Maybe it would help me to bear it.” There was a pleading note to his voice.

“To bear it? If you don't want to stay, then why on earth...?”

“I … can't go back. I just can't.”

Harry heard Hermione's voice in his head. _You see?_ He could hardly bear to believe it. But there really was no other explanation.

“Malfoy, did something happen? Before you left? Did you do something?” Harry grabbed his shoulder, roughly, and waited for Malfoy to meet his eye. “Tell me. You have to tell me.”

“There are some things you shouldn't ask.” Malfoy was quivering. He forced the words out contemptuously. “But maybe... Do you know what it's like to feel you'll go mad if you don't tell someone? Yes. You're right. Something _happened_.”

It was as if Harry's stomach had dropped away, leaving only a cold mass of dread in its place. “Jesus Christ.”

“Something happened. But it wasn't me.”

“What wasn't?”

“I didn't do it. But they made damn sure it looked like I did.”

“Who's _they_?”

Malfoy's face was grim. “It would be madness to tell you.”

Harry's head was thumping. “This whole bloody thing is madness, Malfoy! Just tell me what happened and what it is you're doing here!”

Malfoy let out a shuddering sigh. “Why didn't I just turn around and go back into the vestry when I saw you there, that first day? All my plans were screwed the very first moment I spoke to you.”

“Merlin, don't you think if I'd known, I would never have come? But I can't change what's happened. Can't you just be honest for once?”

“You want honesty?” Malfoy spat the words out. “Very well. It can hardly make things worse. Have you heard of the group who call themselves Obscura?”

Harry shook his head.

“They're... well, they're evil shits, basically. Led by a wizard who saw his chance after Voldemort fell and fancied himself the next Dark Lord.” Malfoy rubbed a hand over his face. “My father— He wanted us to join them, once things settled down a bit. Said they would protect us. He never quite got over picking the losing side in the War, you see – was constantly on the lookout for the next big thing. But Obscura mostly wanted us on board so they could spend what little money we had left and use me to do their grubby work for them.”

“Merlin. What kind of work?” A sick feeling lapped at Harry's throat.

“Extortion. Blackmail. A charming business. I did tolerably well at it. Then came worse. They trusted me, so I was now allowed to help them get the information they needed to continue their activities. Their methods were not the most pleasant. I never did have the stomach for torture.”

“Shit, Malfoy.”

“You asked. My father said... He said it was a wonderful opportunity. That I could regain us the influence and status that was rightfully ours. I refused. But apparently _no_ was not an acceptable answer. They said either I did as they ordered, or I'd find myself framed for murder.”

A shiver ran through Harry despite the warm breezes washing over them. “Framed?”

“A wizard named Fawley Wheedle,” Malfoy continued. “They had some grudge against him. Poor bastard got flayed alive – the Excorio Curse. They used my wand to do it. Left my signet ring with the Malfoy crest in his clenched fist, as if there'd been a struggle.”

Harry took a moment to swallow down the wave of revulsion he felt at the image. “But why didn't you tell someone? You could have gone to the Aurors. You could have—”

Malfoy looked at him with disdain. “As if anyone would have believed me. You seem to forget who I was. _What_ I was.” He pushed up the sleeve of his cassock and thrust his forearm in Harry's face. The Dark Mark was faded to a very light grey, almost silvery against Malfoy's pale skin, but still unmistakable to anyone who knew what it was. Malfoy's hand shook as he pulled the sleeve back down.

“I hadn't forgotten.” Harry shook his head. “You could have told the truth. You had people who would have helped you. What about... McGonagall? Hermione, even – she spoke at your trial, she would have—”

“How could I have the nerve to ask anyone for help? My father and I were mired deep in corruption. We joined Obscura only a few weeks after our trials. I couldn't look myself in the eye in the mirror, let alone stand in front of someone like McGonagall and ask for help. I fucking deserved to be punished, Potter. But I couldn't go to prison.”

“So you chose a different kind of prison.”

Malfoy made an impatient motion with his hand. “It was an escape. At first. You remember Joseph Lockwood? He was in Ravenclaw, our year. Muggleborn. His family were religious; he was always bringing it up in class. I found a way to get in touch. Said I'd found God, but that my family were set against it and that they were keeping me a virtual prisoner in the Manor. He helped me, and I managed to get away. First to Leeds, then to Rome.”

Harry could hardly take it all in. He just wished he'd known. Surely, he could have helped. _Someone_ could have helped.

“For a long time I felt sick every time a door opened, every time I heard a noise in the night. But once enough time had elapsed that I realised Obscura weren't coming after me – and that the Aurors either didn't know where I was, or didn't care enough to follow me – I felt so _safe_ , Potter. So incredibly safe. I could sleep at night for the first time since the War.

“I met a priest called Father Constanzo. I... told him something of my life. I changed the details, obviously. He listened to me... without judgement. I can't tell you how it feels to have a man like that look into your eyes with acceptance. With fucking love, Potter. He said he could see...” Malfoy's throat worked furiously. “He said I had true repentance in my heart.”

“And this priest... he was a Muggle?” Harry asked.

“Yes, of course. Hell, you don't think I still believe any of that Pureblood crap, do you, Potter? Muggles are just people. And he was one of the best kind.” Malfoy looked out at the water and then screwed up his face in disgust. “All I wanted at that time was to live up to his hopes for me. I really thought I could do it.”

Harry had no doubt that Malfoy was telling the truth. He would have staked his life on it. “You _can_ leave,” Harry said. “I thought at first you were happy here, but... you never will be. Come back. You don't belong here.”

“Are you even listening? How can I? I didn't kill Fawley Wheedle, but, Potter, I was no saint. How can I go back? And I doubt Obscura would look too kindly on how I ran out on them, either, even after all this time. Those kind of people don't forget in a hurry.”

“Come back with me,” Harry said stubbornly. “Face up to it.”

“It's easy for you to say, Potter, but you're not the one staring down twenty years in Azkaban, or the wrong end of a wand in a dark alley—”

“I'll help. And Hermione. She's in Magical Law, now. A total hotshot. She can get anyone off anything. As long as she's on your side.”

Malfoy looked at him sideways. “I never understood why she ever would be. What was that about? Testifying for me, I mean. After what I called her. All the things I did.”

“Because someone had to, and I was a fucking mess at the time and could hardly leave the house.” Harry wanted to growl with frustration. Why couldn't Malfoy see? “How about putting your faith in something that can really save you? My friends saved my life after the War. It's not just priests who can grant forgiveness, you know. Us ordinary mortals can forgive each other, as well.”

Malfoy wet his lips. He was staring at Harry's face with an intense expression. Harry couldn't tell if it was a look of hatred, or—

“What about you, then, Potter? Could you....” He brought his hand up to brush Harry's bare shoulder, then dropped it back down. “Could you forgive me? For what I did. For what I am.” He spoke harsh and low.

It hurt Harry to swallow. “I don't know.” Malfoy was standing so close, Harry could feel the heat from his body. “What are you?” Harry was leaning in without even meaning to. As if there was no other way it could be. He was drawn to Malfoy, again and again, the way the moon drew the tides.

Malfoy whispered it like a threat. “I don't know.”

Malfoy's face was out of focus now. Harry could just see his mouth, full and tempting, his lips gently parted. He didn't know who leaned in and closed the final gap. He only knew that if he didn't get to taste Malfoy, to touch him, right now, that he was going to ignite in a blaze of hellish desire.

The moment their lips met, Malfoy groaned and brought both hands up. One cupped the back of Harry's head while the other moved over the bare skin of his back. Oh, god. It was like Harry was burning with an unholy bliss. He licked his way deep into Malfoy's mouth, claiming it for his own, and felt fresh shivers of hunger and need as Malfoy tilted his head and allowed Harry to take the kiss deeper, to lose himself in the dark lushness of Malfoy's mouth and tongue.

Malfoy's fingers ran along his skin as if it was the finest silk, splaying greedily over his spine until they reached the small of his back. He cinched Harry in, bringing their bodies close, like they belonged together. Then Malfoy rolled his hips, once, twice, and Harry let out a guttural sound that vibrated deep in his chest. Malfoy's erection, dragging across Harry's, was hard and undeniable and made Harry feel like he was losing his fucking mind.

“Oh, god...” He whimpered, kissing Malfoy over and over between deep gasps of air, desperate for the taste of him, for the feel of his tongue sliding into Malfoy's mouth, dizzy with the fact Malfoy was _allowing him_ to do this. “Holy fucking Merlin.”

Malfoy did it again, cupping Harry's arse so that there was more pressure, more, and Harry bucked against him, crying out. He needed this, couldn't live without it. He needed _more_ , so much more. Needed Malfoy's skin against his. Needed Malfoy’s cock, hot and sticky, thrusting against his thigh, dragging with exquisite friction over the head of his cock. He pulled at Malfoy's robes and found they were fastened tightly. His wand was in his shirt, lying on the shingle. He couldn't remember a single word of magic anyway. He fumbled madly and got one button undone and huffed with impatience.

“There are – uh – thirty-three of those, Potter...“ Malfoy's voice was wonderfully unsteady. “I think you'd better—”

But Harry had discovered a new, far better way of divesting Malfoy of the hated robes, which was to pull – _hard_ – to twist at the same time and wrench at the two sides of the fabric and watch with a grim triumph as the buttons began to rend from the cassock, popping off in a most satisfying manner to reveal a thin undershirt beneath. Harry smiled grimly as the loathed dog collar fell aside onto the sand.

“Fucking hell...” Malfoy protested, but Harry got the cassock open to Malfoy's waist, and then simply pushed it down, slipping it off his shoulders to let it puddle around Malfoy's feet.

Beneath were the slim dark trousers which fitted Malfoy so beautifully, but Harry only had eyes for the prominent bulge at the front. He dropped to his knees without any conscious plan except to get as close as possible to the heat and hardness he had felt through the robes. He pushed his face against the material, groaning at the sensation of it, the heat which radiated from Malfoy's body, bursting with power and virility.

“Oh, Potter.” Malfoy sounded half-wrecked, but Harry only closed his eyes and rubbed his cheek against the shape of Malfoy's gorgeous cock. He had never felt anything so erotic in his entire life, never seen anything he wanted more than the sight of Malfoy biting his lip and swaying as Harry nuzzled fiercely into his erection.

“Come back with me,” Harry moaned, parting his lips eagerly to mouth at the slightly rough fabric.

“God, _yes_ ,” Malfoy answered, but whether he was agreeing, or just spurring Harry on, he couldn't tell.

“Will you?” Harry could smell him, smell the dark spiciness of his arousal. His mouth watered for it, and he pressed the flat of his tongue against the bulge and slowly licked upwards.

“Ah, ah, ahhh...” Malfoy said,

“ _Will_ you?” Harry reached around to Malfoy's arse to pull him closer against Harry's face. He wanted to worship him with his mouth. His own prick was aching with the torment and wonder of it.

“Oh, god, Potter.... Please. I need it. So much. Just this once.”

“No,” said Harry, his hands moving over the muscles of Malfoy's arse. His lean thighs. “Not just this once.”

“Yes, yes,” Malfoy sounded as if he were coming apart. “God, yes, please. _Please_ , Potter. Just this once, and then....”

“You have to choose,” Harry said, pushing with his nose, his lips, his tongue, searching for the sweet musk of Malfoy's cock, light-headed with desperation. “You have to.”

“I ca-an't. It's not just me... It's my father, too.”

“You can't sacrifice yourself for your father! Since when did he ever think of what was right for you?”

Malfoy's fingers wound through Harry's hair. He pushed against Harry's face, burying Harry's nose deep in his groin. “Let me. Let me, Harry.” He reached for his own belt and started to loosen the buckle.

“No.” All Harry wanted to do was let Malfoy come to pieces in his mouth. To see him lose himself in pleasure, to learn what he sounded like as he tipped over the edge. It would be so easy. Malfoy's buckle was open, and he was fumbling with the button.

“No,” said Harry. “You have to choose. I mean it, Malfoy.” He sat back on his heels and wiped his mouth. God, Malfoy looked like a prince, standing there above him. His face was flushed and his eyes were dark and dangerous, glinting with intent and making Harry wonder for a moment where exactly Malfoy's wand had got to and whether he could get to his own in time if necessary.

Malfoy's face twisted, and he reached for Harry. “Potter. _Harry_. Come here. Your mouth. Your beautiful mouth.”

“Are you going to face up to things, or not?”

Malfoy's face was clenched in discomfort. “I can't. You have to see – I just can't—”

Harry's mouth was filling with a sour taste. He turned and spat onto the ground, a sickening glob of it. “Fuck you, then. Fuck you, and fuck your God.”

Malfoy looked disbelieving as Harry stood up.

“Find someone else to play your games with. It won't be me.” Harry felt sticky all over, grimed with sweat, and tainted by Malfoy's duplicity. The urge to get into the cool water of the sea and swim rose up, even stronger than before. Harry didn't stop to think twice. He yanked open his flies and then put his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and hooked both his pants and jeans down over the ridge of his own still-hard cock, which throbbed with disappointment and thwarted desire.

Malfoy watched him, a slow smile creeping back across his face. “Look at you. How much you want me. You don't mean it.”

“I fucking do,” Harry said, and turning his back on Malfoy, tossed his glasses down onto his clothes. “And don't you _ever_ come on to me again unless you're serious. Unless it means something. Because the next time, I swear I'll Hex your fucking legs off, you gutless, lying arsehole.” He didn't look back, but walked straight towards the sea.

The shingle hurt his feet like a bastard, but he didn't slacken his stride or flinch until he reached the water. It was much colder than he had expected – just what he needed, like a slap in the face. He walked in quickly, the sea floor slanting away sharply so that he could submerge his body in the bracing saltiness of the water. He swam away from the shore with angry, punishing strokes, trying to put as much distance between himself and Malfoy as he could. He swam until he felt his heart battering at his ribs and his arms burned with the intensity of his effort, then let himself tread water until his breathing returned to a more normal rate.

Without his glasses, the lights from the town were just blurry splotches, and Malfoy was nothing, not even a shape in the darkness. It was as if he didn't exist, Harry told himself, but he still scanned what he could see of the beach for movement. _Fuck Malfoy. Fuck him to hell and back._ Harry was going to stay out here until there was no doubt but that Malfoy had got bored and wandered off. He would stay out here all night if he felt it would help. But still his eyes scanned the shoreline.

Harry sucked in a deep breath, then let it go and let himself sink under the surface. He would stop himself from looking, then. He just wished he could stop himself from feeling. It was a murky green at first, then as he sank down, darkness enveloped him and the water rushed to fill his ears. His anger started to ebb away as he travelled down, his limbs becoming loose and heavy as he submitted to the deep embrace of the sea.

He wished he had taken Gillyweed, so he could stay down here. Somehow, under the water, the situation looked quite different. It was easier to let go of his inhibitions and fears. To leave self-criticism behind, let it all be washed away until only the essentials remained. He was attracted to Malfoy – desperately attracted. The reason he looked at men sometimes was because he liked men. He was gay – of course he was gay. It was so obvious now. He felt his resistance to the idea falling away, like chains loosening.

It was so peaceful down here. He would swim up to the surface for air in just a minute. Just another minute. He could drift off to sleep here, it was so quiet and still, the water rocking him gently to and fro like a mother cradling her infant. He thought of his own mother. He couldn't remember being held like that, tenderly, as if he were precious, but surely she must have done so. Part of him wanted to lie down, to let the sea have its way with him, but the rest of his body began to clamour for air. He kicked off strongly from the sea bed and felt himself rising again, swift and sure.

As he surfaced, the pain hit him. His lungs burned with the need for oxygen, but deeper than that, a sharper, jagged pain, the sense of betrayal and loss, the physical ache for Malfoy which felt like it might never go away. He pulled breath after breath into his lungs until the pain there receded, but the longing and the fury, the pangs in his guts, his sternum, were fierce and showed no mercy.

He turned back towards the lights of the houses and struck out for the shore again. He would go back to the cottage after all. There was another bottle of wine in the cupboard, and he almost certainly had some Dreamless Sleep tucked away in his bag. That would get him through the worst of the night, and then, in the morning—

He became aware of a splashing, off to his right. He squinted into the darkness, but without his glasses, and with the moonlight reflecting in endless ripples from the waves, he could see less than he would have liked.

The splashing was rhythmic and getting nearer. Harry was still lightheaded from being underwater for so long. It was quite ridiculous to hope. He hated his stupid, damn-fool heart for even thinking of it—

A pale shape flashed into view, wet hair the colour of honey, lean shoulders and narrow arms streaking through the water. Malfoy's face looked even more angular with his hair soaked and flattened around his features. He reached Harry and came breathlessly to a stop.

Harry didn't speak. Didn't smile. He told himself if Malfoy tried anything he would personally drown the fucker, hold his head under until the bubbles stopped coming.

Malfoy was treading water, only a couple of feet away. “I— Harry.”

“Yes.”

“Don't Hex me.”

“Why not?”

“Because. I'm – what you said.”

“A gutless arsehole?”

“No, you bastard. The other thing.”

The moonlight gleamed on Malfoy's hair. On his wet bare shoulders. On the pale fingers Harry could see moving through the water to keep him afloat. His lips felt as if they would stumble over the words. “You mean... you're serious.”

Malfoy's eyes looked a little terrified. “Yes.”

“In what way?”

“I— God.”Malfoy swallowed, then tilted his chin upwards. “I want to come back. I want to try.”

“And why should I believe you?”

“Bloody hell, Potter, don't make this easy for me, will you?” His voice cracked, and Harry felt a stab of guilt.

“I'm just— It's all fucking mixed up,” Harry said. “I don't even know what's happening here. Maybe you should stay here. Try to work it out. You've come this far.” Harry ducked his head in the cold water again, trying to clear his thoughts. “I don't bloody know.”

Malfoy shook his head fiercely. “No. I— I thought at first that if you would just leave, it would— but it was no good. Way before you turned up. I've been ignoring it for so long, and now— I can't bloody live like this. I can't.”

“You need to do what's right for you. I wish I knew what that was.”

Malfoy's eyes were such a clear silver-grey, like the moonlight, like the wisps of cloud passing over the sky. Close up, his lashes were pale and silvery too. He leaned in and kissed Harry, softly, almost wonderingly. His lips were salty, and chilled from the water, but his mouth was hot and so inviting that Harry didn't feel he would ever be able to resist it again.

“This is right,” Malfoy murmured. “Isn't it?” His hand sought Harry's under the water and their fingers laced together.

Harry couldn't speak. He felt as if he were sinking under the water again, overwhelmed by the whole maddening bloody week, and by the feel of Malfoy's lips and hands, their bare legs brushing together, oh, _god_ , so much skin, so much bare, pale skin and absolutely no fucking robes in the way at all. He knew that common sense would say perhaps he shouldn't trust Malfoy. That he should probably keep his wits about him. He knew all this, but the lure of letting go, to just be, to drift, and let the flow of his desire take him where it would, was much stronger. It was so strong. So good. So _right_. Harry let go, and let the tides that ran between him and Malfoy pull him where they would.

Malfoy was kissing Harry as if he would starve without it. It was a thrill Harry never could have dreamt of, to see him like this, unguarded. His breath came hard and fast into Harry's mouth, and as their hands linked together again, an unexpected wave passed right over them and dragged them under for a moment. Harry came up spluttering. Malfoy was blinking and shaking the water from his eyes.

“Come back to the beach,” Harry said, and Malfoy didn't hesitate but struck out for the shore with fluid, powerful strokes. Harry followed, deliberately staying behind so that he could watch Malfoy swim, the muscles of his shoulders and back hypnotic as he moved. And beneath the waves, the long lines of Malfoy's legs and the pale planes of his arse flexing as he cut through the water. Anticipation fizzed through Harry like a drug. They were getting near the shore. He put on a burst of speed in an attempt to overtake Malfoy, but living by the sea had clearly given Malfoy more opportunities to hone his skill, and he bested Harry with seeming effortlessness and stepped out onto the shore first, water sluicing from his body in long, fascinating rivulets.

Harry emerged from the water, suddenly shy, but, oh, god, the sight of Malfoy walking over the beach, skinny and tall and gloriously, gloriously naked. Harry thought he could just watch him forever, the shapes his muscles made as he moved, the regal way he held his head so erect, the dimples at the base of his spine, and – _fuck_ – the arrogant sway of his arse. Harry stayed close and wished he had his glasses right now.

Malfoy reached the spot where their clothes were piled on the stones, and hunted for his wand, then used it to dry himself. Harry was behind him in a moment and bent to touch his lips to the elegant sweep of skin where Malfoy's neck met his shoulder. “God... Malfoy. I need...”

His hair was dripping onto Malfoy's chest. Malfoy aimed his wand at Harry and murmured until Harry felt gentle currents of warm air surround him and the tingle of evaporation all over his body. Malfoy tilted his head to allow Harry better access to his throat, and Harry opened his mouth, insatiable for the taste of his skin.

“Can't you... _uh_... call me Draco? We're not at school now. And if we're going to...” He lifted an eyebrow, apparently nonchalant, but Harry could feel the pulse hammering in Malfoy's throat, miraculous beneath his lips. “ _Ahh._. We _are_ going to... aren't we?”

“Yes,” Harry said, running his hands along the lean jut of his biceps, down to where his waist dipped in, and then over the addictive swell of Malfoy's backside. _Draco's_ backside. Merlin. Fucking Merlin. Was this what it felt like, with a man? How had he not _known_? “Yes.”

Harry stepped in closer, his erection slipping neatly along the cleft of Draco's arse, and _ohh, hell_ , that was just... _nnngh_... “Draco,” he said. “ _Draco_.” His name on Harry's lips was a ragged entreaty.

“Not here.” Draco took Harry's hand to lead him. “The dunes.”

Harry's feet would hardly obey his instructions as they stumbled further up the beach towards the hills and dips that formed the dunes. The sand became soft and yielding under Harry's feet, and as Draco stopped and pulled him down into one of the hollows so that they were visible from neither path nor beach, there was only impossibly fine white sand and all that pale, smooth skin waiting there to meet him.

Merlin. So much skin. Harry didn't know if he could bear it. Draco lay there, all golden and then he stretched himself out against the sand, arms raised above his head, and gave Harry that look of incandescent heat he remembered so well from Mass, the one that made him feel like the air between them was charged and ready to spark into flames at any moment. When Draco looked at him that way, Harry felt like there was nothing he wouldn't do to be with him.

His hands reached out. Draco's skin was something fine and rare, the arrangement of muscle and bone just so, and, god, the _look_ of him, lying there so assured like that... Harry cursed his shaky, shy fingers, but he didn't stop touching, touching and looking. Draco just lay there and they both watched as Harry stroked a path along his shoulder, over the narrow lines of his chest, down to his hipbones. Draco's cock rose from a tangle of pale curls to thrust its way skywards. Harry stared and stared. It was quite the sight – obscenely hard, flushed a dark pink, and startlingly thick against the frame of Draco's skinny stomach. Harry stared, and Draco watched him, and smiled in sly satisfaction.

“So what is it like?” Draco shifted his hips under Harry's touch, and Harry spread his fingers, to touch more. “To be able to look as much as you want?”

Harry didn't have an answer. There was a pearly drop gathering at the slit of Draco's cock. He couldn't get the thought out of his mind that _this_ was what had been under Draco's stifling robes all along. He let his fingers slide into the curls at the base.

“This is what you've been dreaming of, isn't it?” Draco bent his knees to let his legs fall open, and Harry could see everything. His balls, tight and covered with a fine fuzz. The cleft of his arse, smooth and round. Draco laid himself out like a cat in the sun, basking beneath Harry's gaze, and made a small hungry sound in his throat. “What's wrong, are you scared to finally touch as well as look?”

Harry's fingers moved of their own accord and wrapped themselves around Draco's prick and he marvelled as it jerked in his hand. There was something so bold, so fearless about it. He rolled the foreskin over the crown and then gently back, just that one simple, clumsy movement, and Draco's eyes closed in an expression of rapture.

“ _Yessssss..._ Oh, sweet Merlin, yes.”

Harry's blood was buzzing in his ears. He stroked Draco again, this time holding him more firmly, and Draco's hips bucked upwards, his voice cracking. “My god. My god.”

Harry still didn't have his glasses. He lay down beside Draco so that he could see his face better, and used his fist to work the full length of Draco's cock, down to the base of the shaft, and, slow and deliberate, up to the head, thumbing the ridge as he went, and down again. Draco's whole face went slack and reverent, and he _moaned_ , as if Harry had done something absolutely astonishing. As if he had waited five years for someone to touch him like this.

Harry kissed along the sharp line of his jaw, tasting nothing but salt and skin. The taint of the incense was completely washed away by the sea. Draco quivered and made a sound like an entreaty, and Harry rolled his balls in the palm of his hand, marvelling at the firm tautness, and then stroked Draco's cock again, trying to make it smooth and steady, kissing the corner of Draco's mouth and letting his tongue trace around the curve of his lips.

Draco gasped and clenched his hands into the sand. “ _Ahhhh_. Yes. Your mouth. _Uhhh_. Your mouthyourmouthyourmouth.”

Harry paused, his hand still wrapped around Draco's shaft. “You want—?”

“Yes. Yessssss. Use your mouth.”

“You know I don't know how—”

“Doesn't matter. _Fuck._ ”

Harry looked at Draco's cock, the sleek thrust of it. He imagined running his tongue over the smooth swell of the head. Letting it slide between his lips. Feeling Draco's hips jerking beneath him, tonguing the saltiness of him, opening up to let Draco fuck into Harry's mouth, letting Draco's taste and smell fill his mouth and nose. _Yes, oh, god, yes._

The sand was slightly warm and powder-soft beneath his knees as he leaned over Draco. The first touch of his tongue against the shaft felt wonderfully strange, the texture of Draco's skin there not what he had been expecting at all. He pressed the flat of his tongue to it and laid a long, slow lick right from the base to the crown.

It felt good, _so_ good, but even better than the feel of Draco against his lips, even better than the intriguing taste that made his own cock twitch with delight, was the sound Draco made as he did it. Harry tried again, more firmly, and this time, when he got to the top, he licked right over the crown and up along the head, and got another desperate moan from Draco. It was so firm and smooth, and the taste was achingly right. Harry sucked the whole glans into his mouth, and Draco _groaned_ , long and loud, and Harry decided that giving Draco a blow job was just about the best thing that had ever happened to him.

He bent further, taking more of Draco into his mouth, savouring the slide of it against his lips. His tongue sought out more of Draco's taste, running over the ridge, then doing it again when he heard the effect it had on Draco.

“Yes...” Draco gasped. “More...” He was looking down his body to where Harry knelt, his face a mixture of incredulity and pleasure so intense it looked a little like pain.

Harry bent eagerly, took Draco as deep as he could and promptly choked. He tried again, this time slower, but the same thing happened. _Fuck._ He should have known he would be no good at this. He pulled off, eyes watering, and looked at Draco helplessly.

“Don't stop.” Draco's voice was a sort of croak.

“But, I can't—”

“You don't have to go deep. Just don't stop. Your mouth. My god, your mouth.”

Harry inclined his head again and, more warily this time, slid down onto Draco's prick, just taking the glans and another inch or so. It felt so good, just resting on his tongue, the smooth heaviness of it, and the fascinating wrinkles of Draco's foreskin. He moulded his mouth around it, trying to recall what he himself had liked on occasions this had been done to him, but only remembering wetness and heat and a vague feeling of gratitude. Draco reached for Harry's hair and took two handfuls, just holding him steady.

“Yes. _Please_.”

The sound of Draco begging was so inspiring that Harry took him in another couple of inches, and then pulled back, licking along the length as he went.

“ _Uhhhhh_ ,” said Draco, his knees shaking, and his hands tightened in Harry's hair.

Maybe Harry was OK at this after all. He found that all he had to do was dip his head up and down a little for Draco to make a wide variety of appreciative sounds. And when he used his hand on the shaft so he could swirl his tongue over the crown and then suck, just lightly, Draco's hips did indeed jerk upwards, so forcefully that Harry had to hold him down so he could do it again. Harry found it was quite easy to get into a rhythm, dipping and sucking and swirling, and really, the whole thing was so fucking good and so hot and so easy, so incredibly easy to make Draco apparently lose his mind and make breathless, confused sounds, his whole body tensing and trembling with it.

It was almost too much. Harry wanted to close his eyes, to lose himself, too, but Draco's face was taking on the same expression Harry had seen him with at Mass, gradually transfiguring until it was shining with rapture. It was far too compelling to miss. Draco looked at him as if the sight of Harry's lips stretched around his cock was something holy.

“Fuck, Harry...” He arched his back and let his head fall back into the sand. “Oh, _fuuuuuck_.”

Harry felt his own prick leaking copiously onto the sand. Arousal was making his entire body ache with a steady thrum of joy. He wanted to do this to Draco forever. And he wanted to come, so badly, pressure building inside his balls that couldn't be ignored much longer. He felt reckless with desire. He dipped his head and found he could take Draco deeper now, a lot deeper, and that it felt so good, like he wanted to swallow him down, wanted to bury his nose in the curls at the base of Draco's cock.

“ _Uhhh_.“ Draco sounded tortured. “Yes, yes, I'm— _Ahhhh, fuck_ —” His hands clenched tight in Harry's hair, and his hips jolted violently upwards while Harry moaned around his cock.

God, Draco was coming. He was coming because of Harry, coming in Harry's mouth, and Harry could feel every spurt. He swallowed every drop down, relishing the salt and the slight bitterness, hearing himself make small sounds of approval. Draco came and came and came, and Harry took it all, till he was spent at last.

Harry lay his head down on the sand for a moment, overwhelmed, and then crawled up to where Draco lay panting, his hair curling with salt and sweat. Draco kissed him, open-mouthed and sloppy, and didn't stop for the whole sixty seconds that it took to bring Harry off, his fingers just as cool and skillful as Harry had dreamed. Harry came all over the smooth skin of Draco's belly, while Draco smiled, and stroked him, and kissed him some more, his sharp features loosened into something triumphant and free.

Afterwards, they lay there, just listening to the sea, too lethargic to move or speak, Harry running his fingers enquiringly all over Draco's body. When Draco's prick began to show decided signs of interest again, they Summoned their clothes into two bundles and Apparated the short distance to the cottage. The bed was wide and comfortable, and they spent some time there in worshipful exploration before falling asleep in a sated and rather sandy tangle of limbs.

 ~~

In the morning, Harry woke early to find the sun streaming in at the window and Draco curled up on the far side of the bed with all of the covers wrapped tightly around himself.

He let Draco doze until nine, and then woke him with coffee.

It was a tense, miserable start to the day, compared to the freedom of the night before. Draco was spikily anxious until Harry suggested taking a note down to the church explaining that Draco was unwell. An uneasy guilt prickled at Harry's scalp as he placed it on the altar for Father Rose to find and left again quickly, feeling as if he had the church candlesticks stuffed under his shirt.

Back at the cottage, Draco was sitting on the bed, pale and pinched, looking slightly waif-like in one of Harry's shirts with his bare legs sticking out of the bottom.

“I couldn't put those on again.” He gestured to the black vestments which he had folded into a pile on the chest of drawers. “And your stupid jeans fall down on me.”

Harry Transfigured him a belt from a spare shoelace. Draco scowled at the jeans, but put them on anyway.

“It's just for now.” Harry set to making breakfast, stealing frequent glances at Draco, who sat at the kitchen table cradling a cup of coffee. He looked so different in casual Muggle wear – younger, and somehow vulnerable. Or maybe that was just the dark circles which ringed his eyes.

Harry heaped eggs and bacon onto his plate, and Draco ate with an appetite that was equal to Harry's. Harry wished they could just stay there at the cottage and hide from the world. From both their worlds. Go back to bed and lose themselves between the sheets. He wouldn't mind betting that he could rid Draco of that wretched look. But it seemed that perhaps they'd both been hiding for long enough.

Instead, he put a fresh mug of coffee in front of Draco. Apparently he took it black, with a heaping spoon of sugar. Harry could imagine how his mouth would taste, afterwards; the velvety sweetness with just an edge of bitter smoke. “Are you OK?” he asked.

“Yes.” Draco sneered. “Marvellous.”

“OK. Is it—” _Is it because you're scared?_ Harry wanted to say, but he thought Draco might not react too well. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I doubt it.”

Harry looked at his stiff, closed expression and swallowed all of the questions he wanted to ask. _Do you still want to come home?_ And, _Did I sort of blackmail you into agreeing, last night?_ And, _Do you still want me, or was that it?_

Instead he started to wash up, staring out of the window at a greyish sky until the Floo chimed with a determined note. He grimaced, but Hermione's voice was already ringing out through the cottage.

“Harry. Harry! I swear to you, if you don't answer this time, I'm—”

He went into the sitting room. “That Floo was closed!”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I am a witch, if you hadn't noticed. I can get through a closed Floo if I want to. So you _are_ alive. Why didn't you Floo me, you stubborn, bloody, pig-headed, idiotic— Oh. Hello, Malfoy.”

Harry turned to see Draco standing behind him.

“Hello, Granger. How are you?”

“Well, I'd be fine, thanks for asking, if it wasn't for Harry being the most infuriating, hare-brained—”

“Yes, thank you, Hermione!” Harry glared at her, and then at Draco, who was starting to smirk.

“So, Malfoy.” Hermione was all brisk kindness. “When are you coming home, then?”

Draco blinked. “Er. Soon, I suppose.”

“I can get you both a Portkey for this afternoon, about two-thirty. Will that suit you, or would you rather Apparate?”

Draco put his hands in his pockets. In _Harry's_ pockets. “Um. A Portkey would be good. I haven't Apparated that far for a long time.”

She flicked a glance up and down him. “Do you need me to send some clothes? Or will you be all right wearing Harry's?”

Harry felt the beginnings of a blush forming around his ears, but Draco answered quite levelly. “I think I'll be OK like this.”

“Fine. That's settled, then.” She raised her eyebrows at Harry. “Two-thirty. Yes?”

Harry frowned. It wasn't that he wasn't pleased. In fact, he could feel a warm spiral of elation trying to escape from his chest. It was just that it would never stop being annoying how Hermione could always come in and _know_ everything without being told, and get everyone sorted in three seconds flat, and—

“ _Yes_ , Harry?”

“Yes. Fine!” He stomped back to the washing up, but not quickly enough to avoid seeing Draco and Hermione exchange a look.

“Come and see me before you do anything else, Malfoy,” he could hear Hermione saying. “I think we have a lot to sort out.”

 ~~

Harry noticed on the way to the church that Draco had done something to the jeans. They were quite tight on him now. Especially around the arse. Draco walked with his accustomed composure, all vulnerability gone. Instead he looked rather aloof, and apparently unaware of Harry's eyes on him. He held another, considerably longer letter to Father Rose in his hand, and when they reached the church, he stepped forward quickly to place it on the altar and then retreated behind the altar rail, looking up at the stained-glass window.

Harry cleared his throat. “Do you want me to leave you alone for a bit?”

Draco shook his head. “No. I only want a moment.” He knelt at the rail and bent his head.

Harry shifted from foot to foot. “I'll wait outside.”

“All right.”

It was cool and cloudy in the churchyard, but the sun kept trying to break through. Harry let his wand slide down into his hand, and he crouched down to use it to trim the grass around Lillian's gravestone, but Draco came out after only a minute or two.

“All done?” Harry asked.

Draco lifted his chin. “Yes. I just told Him I'm sorry. If He exists, that is. I'm sorry, but I would have made a fucking lousy priest.”

Harry didn't have an answer for that. He carried on tidying the area around Lillian's grave. The tulips were distinctly past their best now, and Draco looked at them with narrowed eyes, then reached in the pocket of Harry's jeans for his own wand and gestured. “May I?”

Harry nodded, curious to see what Draco would do. He Vanished the tulips with a graceful flourish, then Conjured a bushy plant topped with vibrant reddish-orange flowers. Lilies. Of course. White lilies always reminded Harry of funerals, but these vivid ones blazed glorious and cheerful.

Draco raised an eyebrow in Harry's direction. “OK?”

Harry nodded his approval.

“Firecracker lilies,” Draco explained. “My mother used to have some. They're rooted in the ground, so they won't fade like the others. These ones will bloom all year round, but I'll fix it so the Muggles won't notice.” He sketched an arc around the plant with his wand, surrounding it with a silvery bubble for a moment, then let it fade to nothing. “There.”

Harry looked at the grave with satisfaction. He remembered how he had felt when he arrived here, last Tuesday. Lost, and reaching out blindly, so directionless that he had even sent up a prayer asking for help. Now the lilies thrust out their bright blooms, bold and hopeful. “They're... sort of perfect, actually. Thank you.”

“A pleasure.” Draco's face was still on the tense side, but he gave a tight smile. “I really have to get away from here now. But if you want to stay longer...”

“No, I'm all done as well.” Harry straightened up and tucked his wand away. “You're right. You would have made a bloody awful priest.”

“Well, thanks for repeating the obvious.”

Harry tried to keep a straight face, but a smile sneaked out around the edges. “But you know, with a bit of effort, you could maybe make a half-decent human being.”

Draco looked as if he might Hex someone, but Harry just wiped his hands on his jeans and reached shyly for Draco's hand. Draco glared at Harry, but let him lace their fingers together for a moment before pulling away.

“You're a git, Potter.”

“I know.”

“A – what was it? A stubborn, bloody, pig-headed, idiotic—”

“It is time to go.” Harry jerked his head in the direction of the gate. “I think I'm going to regret getting you and Hermione together.”

“Oh, I do hope so.”

Their footsteps crunched along the gravel of the path. The thought of returning to London was daunting. Practical things like finding Draco somewhere safe to live, and then the beginning of the nightmarish task of him dealing with the Aurors. And Harry hadn't the faintest idea how people would react to him and Draco being... being what Harry hoped they could be. He had faced worse, obviously. He knew Hermione would help. But he didn't even know if Draco would want to be with him once they got away from the Muggle world.

He let his eyes wander to Draco again and noticed that the shirt also looked more fitted than when Harry had last worn it, and freshly ironed, and he could see a hint of collarbone. Harry felt... well. Tired, and slightly anxious, but also filled with a strange exhilaration at having something to work for. Something that meant something. What he felt most of all, though, was ridiculously smitten. Which was fairly terrifying in itself.

This time, Draco caught him looking, and for a long, dazzling moment, his eyes flared with interest. As Draco held the gate open, Harry was so engrossed with the half-smile he thought he saw pulling at Draco's lips that he nearly walked into the gatepost instead. Then Draco did smile, a slow, delightful thing that sent heat rampaging through Harry, warming him to the tips of his toes.

The little gate swung closed with a squeak. They left the church behind them and walked out into the lane.

**Author's Note:**

> You can leave your comments here or on [LiveJournal](http://hd-collab.livejournal.com/5213.html). :)


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